Ill 


FROM   THE  LIBRARY  OF 
REV.   LOUIS    FITZGERALD    BENSON,  D.  D. 

BEQUEATHED   BY   HIM   TO 

THE   LIBRARY  OF 

PRINCETON  THEOLOGICAL  SEMINARY 


THE    BROADER    VISION 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2012  with  funding  from 

Princeton  Theological  Seminary  Library 


http://archive.org/details/broaderOOholm 


Richard  Sill  Holmes 


2  1937   ^ 


THE 


BROADER    VISION 


BY 


RICHARD  SILL  HOLMES 


PHILADELPHIA 
THE   WESTMINSTER  PRESS 

1913 


N- 


COPYRIGHT,  1913 
BY  MABEL  D.  HOLMES 


Acknowledgments  are  due,  for  the  material 
used  in  the  making  of  this  little  book,  to  the  editors 
of  "The  Continent,' '  on  whose  pages  many  of  the 
selections  which  make  up  the  contents  have  ap- 
peared. The  poems  are  fugitives,  gathered  from 
many  sources,  some  few  of  them  never  having  been 
published  before.  The  short  prose  articles  have  all 
appeared  as  editorial  material  in  the  columns  of 
"  The  Westminster  "  and  of  "  The  Continent."  The 
little  collection  of  Dr.  Holmes's  work  has  been 
prepared  and  edited  by  his  daughter,  at  the 
request  of  many  of  his  friends ;  and  is  now  pub- 
lished with  the  hope  that  in  this  way  the  influence 
of  the  [message  that  for  forty  years  he  preached, 
with  tongue  and  with  pen,  may  be  made  permanent 
and  abiding. 

M.  D.  H. 


RICHARD  SILL  HOLMES 
1842-1912 

We  may  not  crown  him  with  weak  words  or  laurel  him  with 

praise. 
Or  know  the  greatness  of  his  life  in  numbering  of  his  days. 
'  Tis  not  with  line  of  eulogy  we  measure  best  his  girth  — 
"E'en  as  he  trod  that  day  to  God  so  walked  he  from  his  birth.'* 

The  beating  of  his  heart  is  still,  and  yet  his  soul  throbs  on 
And  trumpets  us  to  victories,  embattled,  he  has  won. 
His  laughter  lilts  upon  our  lips,  his  purpose  nerves  our  hand, 
And  visioned  by  his  faith  we  press  toward  God's  high  prom- 
ised land. 

'Tis  not  for  brave  and  golden  words  that  we  have  loved  him 

most, 
Or  for  those  merited  rewards  the  world  delights  to  boast. 
His  life  rang  true,  in  death  he  was  not  holden  of  the  sod; 
For  as  he  walked  the  paths  of  earth  so  fared  he  forth  to  God. 

Elliot  Field 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 

Page 

The  Story  of  a  Full  Life 1 

Life,  Nature  and  the  Spirit 

The  Preacher 17 

A  Saint 20 

Brass  and  Blue 23 

The  Day  of  the  Drone 26 

"What  Do  You  Read,  My  Lord?" 80 

On  Hallowed  Ground 36 

Out  of  the  City 38 

Cut  Back 42 

The  Edge  of  the  Cliff 46 

Mountain  to  Shore 52 

Pendulums 58 

Grace 64 

The  Essential  Creed 67 

Life 70 

Henry  M.  Stanley,  D.C.L 73 

Wilfred  T.  Grenfell      75 

Samuel  H.  Hadley 77 

S.  Grover  Cleveland 78 

Some  Reflections  on  the  Death  of  a  Poet 81 

God's  Hero 84 

Inventory  Making 89 

"  Before  the  Rising  of  the  Sun " 93 

"How  Shall  We  Keep  Easter?" 96 

A  Christmas  Eve  Revery 99 

The  Great  Gift 101 


X  TABLE      OF      CONTENTS 

Page 
Life  Lyrics 

A  Spring  Triad 107 

The  Harbinger 108 

"The  Great  and  Wide  Sea" 109 

The  Call  of  the  Wild 112 

The  Bungalow 113 

The  Porch 114 

Posthumous 115 

Sweet  Sixteen 116 

San  Francisco  Peaks 117 

Cambronne 118 

The  Deserter 119 

Tree  and  Heart 121 

Primrose  and  Spring 122 

Per  Contra 123 

The  Guerdon 124 

Lost 125 

Contrasts 126 

Two  Songs 127 

The  Gate 128 

Compensation 129 

Self-Defeat 130 

Triumph 131 

Oblivion 132 

Immortality 132 

The  Quest 133 

George  William  Knox 135 

The  Rock  of  Ages 136 

My  Prayer 137 

Calvary 138 

The  Shrine 139 

Thou  Drawest  Me 140 

Aspiration 141 

Enoch 143 


TABLE      OF      CONTENTS  XI 

Page 

Holiday  and  Anniversary  Poems 

The  Bird  and  the  Mom      147 

On  Easter  Morning 148 

An  Easter  Hymn      149 

An  Old  Story 151 

Hail,  Easter  Morn!      153 

Whither  Away? 154 

Decoration  Day 156 

The  Song  of  Liberty 158 

Old-Time  Memories 161 

A  Thanksgiving  Hymn 163 

Christmas  Mom 165 

Christmas  Eve 166 

For  Christmas 167 

Night:  Star:  Child      170 

A  Christmas  Song 171 

Bells  in  the  Night 173 

Light  That  Shall  be 175 

One  Hundred  Years 176 

A  Group  of  Sonnets  .• 

Spring 181 

Summer 182 

Autumn 183 

Winter 184 

The  Winter  Trees 185 

Anemone 186 

Nightfall 187 

A  Summer  Night      188 

Eventide 189 

Mors  —  Lux 190 

The  Guest  Room 191 

The  Watcher 192 

The  Glen  and  the  Shadow      193 


Xll  TABLE      OF      CONTENTS 

Page 

TheAngelus 194 

Self-Comprehension 195 

Liberty 196 

Love 197 

The  Master  Passion 198 

The  Church 199 

Grace 200 

The  Refuge 201 

Power  and  Love 202 

Samuel  H.  Hadley 203 

Julia  Ward  Howe 204 

Abraham  Lincoln 205 

William  C.  Gray 206 

To-day's  Bethlehem 207 

Nightfall 208 

Sparks  from  the  Thought  Anvil 

Antitheses  and  Analogies 211 

Old  Sayings  with  Modern  Meanings 214 

Kindling 216 

Sparks  That  Fly  Upward 221 

Our  Books 226 

Education 227 

Salvation  by  Inculcation  ? 229 

No  Thought  for  the   Morrow:    an    Anti-Care    Pre- 
scription      231 


THE   BROADER   VISION 


THE  STORY  OF  A  FULL  LIFE 

The  lives  of  some  great  men  are  memorable  for 
outstanding  achievements,  rising  like  mountain 
peaks  above  the  level  plain  of  the  everyday  work 
of  their  lesser  contemporaries.  Other  men,  equally 
great,  are  so  not  by  virtue  of  a  few  notable  deeds, 
but  by  grace  of  the  untiring  energy,  the  vital  faith, 
the  lofty  idealism  which  pack  into  one  lifetime  the 
accomplishment  of  two;  of  the  fresh  vigor  of  spirit 
which  illuminates  the  common  act  with  the  light 
of  the  uncommon.  Such  a  life  has  no  mountain 
peaks,  perhaps,  towering  above  its  level,  though  here 
and  there  may  be  a  hill  of  attainment  beyond  that 
of  the  average  soul.  But  everywhere  the  plain  is 
aglow  with  the  light  of  a  radiant  spirit;  on  its  broad 
reaches  the  grass,  watered  by  streams  of  loving- 
kindness,  is  green  and  fresh  and  ever  young;  along 
the  path  of  each  passer-by  spring  flowers  of  faith 
and  joy,  of  peace  and  hope.  What  might  have  been 
a  barren  stretch  of  level  sand  is  transformed  into  an 
Eden  by  the  touch  of  the  life  that  passed  its  sojourn 


2  THE     BROADER     VISION 

there.  Such  a  life  was  and  is  the  life  of  him  who 
left  as  his  legacy  the  message  that  this  little  volume 
brings. 

Richard  Sill  Holmes  was  born  in  Brooklyn,  New 
York,  on  the  sixth  of  July,  1842.  Coming  of  good 
English  stock,  his  ancestors  in  the  direct  line  were 
among  the  earliest  settlers  of  New  England.  His 
mother,  Lucretia  Frances  Harris,  was  directly 
descended  from  John  Haynes,  the  first  colonial 
governor  of  Connecticut,  and  four  direct  ancestors 
fought  in  the  American  Revolution.  The  vigorous 
independence  that  characterized  Dr.  Holmes  in 
both  thought  and  act  was  his  rightful  inheritance 
from  independent  Puritan  and  Quaker  forefathers. 
His  father,  Jacob  Holmes,  one  of  the  brilliant  lawyers 
of  his  day,  and  judge  on  the  bench  in  Albany, 
bequeathed  to  his  son  the  oratorical  power  which 
the  son  was  to  turn  into  a  religious  rather  than  a 
legal  channel. 

The  boyhood  years  of  Dr.  Holmes  were  spent  in 
the  village  of  Greenwich,  New  York,  at  that  time 
known  as  "Union  Village."  Reared  on  simple  lines, 
in  a  home  where  righteousness  was  the  law,  and 
where  thought  was  open  to  every  broadening  in- 
fluence of  those  mid-century  years,  he  was  a  lad 
at  once  studious  and  fun-loving.  Those  who  are 
familiar  with  his  writings  know  how  deeply  entered 
into  his  soul  the  impressions  of  the  surroundings  of 


STORY     OF     A     FULL     LIFE  5 

these  early  years;  to  the  end  his  dearest  memories 
seemed  to  gather  about  the  scenes  of  the  old  home 
where  he  grew  up. 

In  March,  1859,  he  made  his  entrance  into  Middle- 
bury  College  in  Vermont,  across  the  state  line  from 
his  home  village.  He  has  left  a  description  of  him- 
self as  he  was  at  that  time:  "A  boy  sixteen  years 
old,  small  for  his  age,  wearing  a  roundabout  jacket 
buttoned  with  many  brass  buttons  straight  down 
from  throat  to  waist.  He  had  never  been  away 
from  home  alone  before.  His  preparation  for  college 
was  poor  enough,  consisting  of  abundant  mathe- 
matics, some  Latin,  and  but  one  page  of  the  First 
Book  of  the  *  Anabasis'  in  Greek."  Before  his  grad- 
uation in  1862,  he  had  shown  an  amazing  facility 
in  the  languages  particularly,  and  for  solid  scholar- 
ship along  every  line  stood  second  in  a  class  of  which 
he  was  the  youngest  member. 

Graduating  at  the  age  of  twenty,  he  entered  the 
field  of  teaching  as  his  first  activity,  being  instructor 
at  Clinton,  New  York,  and  at  Poughkeepsie,  until 
the  fall  of  1865,  when  he  entered  Auburn  Theologi- 
cal Seminary.  The  decision  for  the  ministry  was 
sudden,  the  result  of  a  very  distinct  religious  experi- 
ence, which  came  after  a  period  of  spiritual  decline. 
Failure  in  health  compelled  him  to  abandon  his 
theological  studies,  as  he  thought,  forever;  and  to 
enter  upon  a  business  life  in  Auburn.     The  experi- 


4  THE     BROADER     VISION 

ence  which  he  gained  from  secular  touch  with  men 
for  the  next  twenty-one  years  was  the  best  possible 
education  in  the  actual  daily  needs  of  everyday 
people.  When  finally  God  thrust  him  back  into 
the  ministry,  he  came  to  the  work  equipped  as  no 
theological  seminary  could  have  equipped  him  with 
a  knowledge  of  human  nature. 

Of  the  twenty  years  of  his  residence  in  Auburn, 
four  were  spent  in  mercantile  life,  eight  as  teacher 
of  Latin  in  the  Auburn  High  School,  and  six  as 
a  manufacturer.  But  the  one  interest  which  con- 
tinued throughout  these  changing  phases  of  activity 
was  his  interest  in  the  work  of  the  Old  First  Church. 
Work  in  the  Sunday  school  led  him  to  be  its  success- 
ful superintendent  for  many  years;  his  fine  tenor 
voice  made  him  an  addition  to  the  choir,  where  for 
eight  years  he  was  a  valued  singer;  from  local 
Y.  M.  C.  A.  work  he  came  to  be  president  of  the  New 
York  State  Y.  M.  C.  A.  in  1871.  His  interest  in  the 
seminary  never  flagged,  and  in  1873,  when  the  insti- 
tution was  in  great  need  of  an  additional  endow- 
ment, the  young  man,  out  of  his  limited  salary  as  a 
teacher,  contributed  the  thousand  dollars  which  was 
the  nucleus  of  a  fund  that  his  generosity  inspired. 
Year  after  year  he  was  reelected  to  the  superin- 
tendency  of  the  Sunday  school,  where  his  leadership 
was  an  inspiration.  To  the  very  end  of  his  life,  men 
and  women  who  had  felt  the  invigorating  touch  of 


STORY     OF     A     FULL     LIFE  5 

his  strong  personality  in  that  capacity  recalled  with 
gratitude  the  work  he  did  for  them  and  for  the 
church.  Equally  appreciative  of  the  power  of  his 
life  were  those  who  had  been  his  pupils  in  the  high 
school,  and  at  every  return  to  Auburn  in  after  years 
he  would  find  friends  among  those  whom  he  once 
had  taught.  But  to  find  friends,  in  every  phase  of 
life  which  he  touched,  was  for  him  the  rule  rather 
than  the  exception. 

In  1877  came  the  experience  which  was  finally 
to  lead  Dr.  Holmes  back  into  the  path  that  brought 
him  to  the  ministry.  It  was  in  the  summer  of  1876 
that  he  went  for  the  first  time  to  the  Chautauqua 
Assembly,  then  an  experimental  venture  in  its  in- 
fancy. His  genius  as  a  student  and  interpreter  of 
the  Bible  at  once  attracted  the  attention  of  Dr. 
John  H.  Vincent,  the  brilliant  founder  of  an  enter- 
prise whose  influence  was  to  be  more  widely  spread 
than  he  or  his  collaborators  dreamed.  Before 
another  year  Dr.  Vincent  had  made  sure  of  the 
services  of  Dr.  Holmes  as  one  of  the  faculty  of  the 
Chautauqua  summer  school  and  as  a  leader  of  normal 
Bible  classes.  For  ten  years  he  was  engaged  in  the 
Chautauqua  work,  lecturing  and  teaching  the  Bible 
on  platforms  far  and  wide  throughout  the  United 
States,  in  summer  assemblies  north  and  south  and 
west.  Always  in  after  years  the  memory  of  this 
period  of  his  life  filled  a  large  place  in  his  heart, 


6  THE     BROADER     VISION 

and  reminiscences  of  the  group  of  gifted  men  and 
women  of  whom  he  was  one  never  lost  their  charm 
for  him.  Of  them  all,  however,  it  was  the  personality 
of  John  H.  Vincent  that  impressed  itself  most 
strongly  upon  the  younger  man,  and  it  was  his 
influence,  as  well  as  the  reactive  effect  of  platform 
work  along  religious  lines,  that  turned  Dr.  Holmes's 
attention  again  to  the  ministry  as  the  field 
offering  the  widest  opportunity  for  the  use  of  his 
powers. 

In  1884  he  removed  from  Auburn  to  Plainfield, 
New  Jersey,  where  he  acted  in  the  capacity  of 
Registrar  for  the  Chautauqua  movement;  and  in 
1887,  after  an  interval  of  more  than  two  decades 
since  leaving  the  seminary,  during  which  time  he 
had  had  no  technical  theological  training,  he  passed 
his  examinations  for  ordination  to  the  ministry,  and 
received  a  call  to  his  first  pastorate,  in  Warren, 
Pennsylvania.  Seldom  indeed  does  a  man  enter, 
after  so  long  a  period  of  suspension  of  theological 
study,  upon  the  work  of  an  active  minister.  Coming 
to  the  field  in  the  prime  of  life,  with  intellect  and 
judgment  fully  matured,  with  insight  into  the  needs 
of  men  gained  by  long  experience  among  men,  and 
with  the  kind  of  loving  sympathy  that  only  comes 
by  contact  with  one's  fellows,  it  is  not  strange  that 
Dr.  Holmes  was  a  powerful  preacher  and  a  successful 
pastor. 


STORY     OF     A     FULL     LIFE  7 

As  he  had  won  the  admiration,  the  devotion,  the 
love  of  pupils  in  the  high  school  and  the  Sunday- 
school,  of  fellow-workers  and  of  listeners  in  summer 
assemblies,  and  of  those  who  came  in  touch  with  him 
in  the  life  of  every  day,  so  now  he  gained  the  hearts 
of  all  those  who  came  within  his  ministry.  Many  a 
man  in  that  western  Pennsylvania  town  remembers 
Richard  S.  Holmes  as  the  friend  and  helper  through 
whose  leading  he  came  to  know  the  Saviour.  In 
1890  he  accepted  a  call  to  the  Shady  side  Church  of 
Pittsburgh,  Pennsylvania,  where  —  during  a  pasto- 
rate of  fourteen  years  —  he  more  than  doubled  the 
membership  of  the  church  and  —  what  is  far  more 
worthy  to  be  remembered  than  numerical  success  — 
won  the  devoted  love  of  a  united  people.  Not  only 
as  pastor  but  as  friend,  he  lives  in  the  memory  of 
those  who  made  his  congregation  during  these  fruit- 
ful years.  It  was  in  the  year  of  his  removal  to  Pitts- 
burgh that  his  own  college  recognized  his  gifts  as  a 
religious  leader,  and  the  brilliant  pulpit  power  which 
continued  to  grow  as  long  as  he  continued  to  preach, 
by  conferring  upon  him  the  degree  of  Doctor  of 
Divinity.  Just  ten  years  later,  at  the  one  hundredth 
anniversary  of  the  founding  of  the  college,  Middle- 
bury  added  to  the  first  degree  that  of  Doctor  of 
Laws. 

In  addition  to  ministering  to  the  needs  of  a  con- 
stantly growing  parish,  Dr.  Holmes  took  a  prominent 


8  THE     BROADER     VISION 

place  in  the  activities  of  his  presbytery,  and  as  time 
went  on  became  more  and  more  recognized  as  a 
vital  force  in  the  work  of  the  church  at  large.  Par- 
ticularly was  he  a  strong  helper  in  the  cause  of 
missions.  In  February,  1899,  when,  in  spite  of  all 
efforts  to  lift  the  burden,  the  Board  of  Home  Mis- 
sions found  itself  still  $80,000  in  debt,  Dr.  Holmes 
proffered  his  aid  in  an  endeavor  to  extinguish  this 
remainder  before  the  next  meeting  of  the  General 
Assembly  in  that  year.  Dr.  Charles  L.  Thompson 
writes:  "At  his  suggestion  a  meeting  was  called,  to 
which  representative  Presbyterians  from  seventeen 
cities  were  invited.  With  characteristic  enthusiasm 
Dr.  Holmes  outlined  a  plan  of  operation,  which  was 
heartily  adopted.  He  gave  voice  and  pen  to  the 
work.  In  a  few  months,  in  large  measure  through 
his  valiant  aid,  the  debt  was  extinguished."  Always 
afterwards  there  hung  upon  his  office  wall  the 
framed  telegram  which  announced  the  paying  of  the 
debt.  "Two  years  later,"  says  Dr.  Thompson  fur- 
ther, "the  larger  enterprise  of  canceling  the  debt  on 
the  Presbyterian  building  in  New  York  was  under- 
taken. Again  the  tireless  energy  of  Dr.  Holmes 
played  an  important  part.  By  letters  and  personal 
appeals  he  was  instrumental  in  securing  a  large  share 
of  the  needed  sum." 

In  1904  the  increasing  handicap  of  the  deafness 
against  which  Dr.  Holmes  had  struggled  for  many 


STORY     OF     A     FULL     LIFE  9 

years  made  it  advisable  for  him  to  resign  his  pasto- 
rate in  Pittsburgh.  Removing  to  Philadelphia,  he 
became  the  founder  of  "The  Westminster,"  lineal 
descendant  of  the  "Presbyterian  Journal."  What 
the  paper  was  during  the  six  years  of  its  independent 
existence  needs  little  further  comment  than  the 
pages  of  this  book  suggest.  Into  this  child  of  his 
brain  he  put  his  best  powers  of  mind  and  heart; 
and  the  files  of  the  paper  are  a  monument  to  his 
indefatigable  energy,  brilliant  genius,  untiring  per- 
sistence, and  inventive  originality.  In  1910  the 
paper  was  united  with  "The  Interior"  of  Chicago, 
to  form  "The  Continent."  What  the  pen  of  Dr. 
Holmes  meant,  in  his  relation  as  editor  with  that 
journal,  can  be  best  deduced  from  a  perusal  of  the 
pages  which  follow  this  brief  sketch.  Suffice  it  to 
say  that  as  his  pupils  and  his  parishioners  alike  had 
known  and  loved  him  best  as  friend  of  their  hearts, 
so  now  his  readers  caught  through  his  writings  the 
gleam  of  his  genial  personality,  and  loved  the  man 
while  they  admired  the  editor.  The  same  charm 
of  intimacy  made  part  of  the  attraction  of  the 
novels  which,  in  his  leisure  moments,  he  found 
time  to  write  during  these  years  in  the  editorial 
chair. 

To  attempt  to  suggest  in  mere  words  what  were 
the  character  and  the  characteristics  of  a  man  whose 
measure  lay  not  so  much  in  what  he  did  as  in  what 


10         THE     BROADER     VISION 

he  was,  is  to  discover  anew  the  inadequacy  of  lan- 
guage. Many  of  those  who  knew  him  in  his  public 
capacity  have  paid  tribute  to  his  steady  perseverance 
along  any  line  of  achievement  which  he  undertook; 
to  his  untiring  energy,  that  would  let  neither  hands 
nor  brain  be  idle;  to  the  courage  that  surmounted 
obstacles  and  rose  indomitable  over  barriers  that 
would  have  daunted  lesser  men.  Many  have  re- 
called his  intensity  of  purpose  and  his  fidelity  in 
adherence  to  it.  To  talk  with  him  about  the  things 
of  the  spirit  was  to  come  in  touch  with  a  breadth  of 
view  that  took  as  the  motto  of  its  charitable  tolerance 
the  words,  "No  controversy";  and  with  a  faith  that, 
while  it  was  vital  and  intelligent,  was  simple  as  a 
child's.  One  who  questioned  him  as  to  his  belief 
regarding  the  other  world  is  fond  of  quoting  his 
answer:  "I  don't  know  anything  about  it;  but  I 
do  know  this  —  whatever  is  on  the  other  side,  my 
business  is  to  live  so  I'll  have  my  share  in  it.  I 
take  no  risks."  Such  a  practical  simplicity  left 
no  room  for  the  speculation  that  so  often  raises 
earthborn  clouds. 

But  to  those  who  knew  him  best,  it  was  his  genius 
as  a  friend  that  lingers  most  in  memory.  Every- 
where he  went  he  drew  friends  to  him.  Children 
loved  him;  to  his  seniors  in  age  he  was  full  of  the 
deference  that  yet  does  not  relegate  its  recipient 
to  the  realm  of  the  out-of-date.     Among  his  con- 


STORY     OF     A     FULL     LIFE         11 

temporaries  he  was  always  a  welcome  comer.  And 
the  indomitable  youth  within  him  made  all  ages  his 
contemporaries.  At  seventy,  men  of  forty  could 
stand  with  him  on  an  equal  footing  of  friendship, 
and  at  the  same  time  feel  the  inspiring  touch  of 
the  experience  of  mellow  old  age.  For  every  life 
that  came  in  touch  with  his  he  had  a  meaning. 
For  every  postman,  elevator  boy,  and  street-car 
conductor  who  served  him  he  had  a  kindly  word; 
these  are  among  the  number  who  remember  him 
as  their  friend.  Many  readers  of  these  pages  can 
recall  letters  from  him  —  cheery,  genial,  breathing 
the  overflowing  abundance  of  life  that  he  shared  so 
freely,  almost  always  with  a  touch  of  the  humor 
that  could  not  be  wholly  repressed,  even  on  the 
darkest  day.  Laughter  was  to  him  as  the  wine  of 
life,  and  the  ring  of  his  hearty  laugh  would  inspire 
good  cheer  in  the  gloomiest  heart. 

The  things  of  life  were  a  never-ending  joy  to  him. 
His  editorials  were  redolent  of  wood  and  field, 
mountain  and  stream,  the  love  of  nature  breathing 
through  them  like  a  perfume.  No  less  keen  an  enjoy- 
ment did  he  find  in  human  nature  in  all  its  phases. 
To  walk  with  him  down  a  city  street  or  through 
a  crowded  store  was  to  share  with  him  the  never- 
failing  delight  that  the  observation  of  city  sights 
afforded  him.  The  flash  of  his  understanding  and 
the  readiness  of  his  sympathy,  responding  quickly 


12  THE     BROADER     VISION 

to  the  mood  of  his  companion,  amused  or  grieved 
at  the  same  causes,  bridged  the  forty  years  that  lay 
between  him  and  the  writer  of  these  pages,  until  the 
two  were  as  boy  and  girl  together.  It  was  perhaps 
this  ability  to  take  another's  point  of  view,  and  to 
throw  himself  heart  and  soul  into  the  projects  and 
interests  of  another,  that  made  much  of  this  great 
gift  of  his  for  friendship. 

To  speak  of  his  friendship  with  the  unseen  and 
with  God  would  be  idle.  His  own  words  embody 
it.  No  higher  tribute  can  be  paid  to  any  man  than 
to  say  that  he  lived  what  he  taught.  The  selections 
here  reprinted  represent  the  spirit  of  his  message  — 
high  in  its  aspiration  toward  God,  broad  in  its 
charity  toward  men,  sympathetic  in  its  interpreta- 
tion of  nature  and  the  heart,  keen  and  often  humor- 
ous in  its  observation  of  events  and  their  meaning. 
No  written  words  can  hereafter  be  added  to  the 
message;  but  so  golden  a  spirit  cannot  die.  Poised, 
well-rounded,  seasoned  with  laughter,  softened  by 
tears,  his  soul  ripened  into  eternity.  Looking  into 
the  west,  he  saw  glowing  there  the  glory  of  the 
sunset,  a  glory  like  that  which  crowns  his  memory. 
The  aspiration  of  the  poet  who  strove  and  suffered 
and  achieved,  and  years  ago  passed  on  beyond  the 
sunset,  was  granted  to  this  saint  of  God  who  lives 
now  in  the  invisible  but  present  world. 


STORY     OF     A     FULL     LIFE         13 

"So  be  my  passing! 
My  task  accomplished  and  the  long  day  done, 
My  wages  taken,  and  in  my  heart 
Some  late  lark  singing, 
Let  me  be  gathered  to  the  quiet  west. 
The  sundown  splendid  and  serene, 
Death." 

Of  that  sundown  the  afterglow  still  lingers,  not 
fading  but  abiding. 

Mabel  Dodge  Holmes. 


LIFE,  NATURE  AND   THE   SPIRIT 


THE  PREACHER 

To  preach  must  be  in  a  man  to  begin  with,  or  it 
is  of  no  use  for  him  to  try.  The  schools  will  never 
put  it  there.  They  may  bring  it  out  into  the  open, 
stripped  and  girded  like  an  athlete,  or  they  may 
fetter  it  for  a  while  with  their  rules.  But  if  the 
power  to  preach  is  in  a  man,  it  will  get  out  sometime. 

Preaching  is  a  divine  art,  and  there  is  nothing 
divine  about  the  schools  but  their  name.  A  divinity 
school  may  teach  a  man  divinely,  that  is,  after  the 
manner  of  the  great  Master,  but  that  will  not  make 
him  preach  divinely.  A  preacher  is  only  a  man. 
The  man-clay  of  which  God  made  us  must  have  the 
divine  image  stamped  on  it,  if  it  is  to  resemble  things 
divine.  The  divine  afflatus  must  have  been  breathed 
into  the  soul  if  it  is  ever  to  be  breathed  out;  and  if  it 
ever  has  been  breathed  in,  it  will  breathe  itself  out, 
sometime,  somewhere.  Expiration  and  inspiration 
must  always  be  equal. 

A  man  thus  inspired  may  never  be  in  a  pulpit. 
He  does  not  always  need  a  pulpit.  No  community 
may  be  wise  enough  to  give  him  a  pulpit.  But  he 
will  preach.  All  men  and  all  devils  cannot  keep 
him  from  preaching.     Such  a  one  never  has  to  ques- 


18  THE     BROADER     VISION 

tion  whether  he  has  a  call  or  not;  he  knows.  God's 
message  is  in  his  soul.  His  cry  is,  "Let  me  get  it 
out,  or  I  die."  His  cry  is,  "Woe  is  me  if  I  preach 
not  the  gospel!" 

If  a  preacher  goes  into  the  pulpit  and  never  feels 
it  cramping  him,  binding  and  limiting  him,  it  may 
be  that  God  called  him  to  the  ministry,  but  I  doubt 
it.  If  a  preacher  ministers  to  a  church  so  small,  with 
audiences  so  thin,  that  he  thinks  it  is  not  worth  his 
while  to  spend  his  strength  on  them,  it  may  be  that 
God  designed  him  for  the  ministry,  but  I  doubt  it. 
To  the  real  preacher  one  hearer  is  as  good  as  ten 
thousand.  The  preacher  never  knows  conditions; 
never  knows  after  he  has  begun  to  preach  whether 
the  congregation  is  large  or  small,  whether  the  day 
is  hot  or  cold;  a  crying  child  or  a  roll  of  thunder  is 
as  nothing  to  him  when  the  divine  impulse  is  on  him. 
God  has  charged  him  with  a  message;  he  must 
deliver  it;  that  is  his  only  thought. 

There  are  sermon  writers,  plenty  of  them;  sermon 
deliverers,  plenty  of  them;  speakers  from  notes, 
and  speakers  without  notes.  One  can  belong  to 
either  of  these  classes  and  not  be  a  preacher.  A 
preacher  is  a  wind  that  rushes,  roars,  sweeps,  drives 
over  a  landscape,  and  makes  everything  know  that 
it  has  passed.  A  preacher  is  a  bar  of  steel  pulled 
from  a  forge  where  it  has  been  heated  to  glistering 
whiteness.     A  preacher  is  a  great  white-capped  wave 


THE     PREACHER  19 

rolling  in  from  the  ocean,  dashing  over  every  oppos- 
ing thing  that  lies  upon  the  shore.  A  man  will 
never  be  a  preacher  who  chooses  the  ministry  from 
a  sense  of  duty.  He  will  never  be  a  preacher  if 
he  chooses  it  because  his  parents  dedicated  him  to 
God  in  childhood.  The  condition  so  imposed  can  be 
as  well  fulfilled  by  being  a  tinsmith.  Let  no  man 
choose  the  ministry  for  a  career,  nor  because  he 
thinks  it  is  about  the  most  useful  thing  he  can  do. 
Let  him  not  choose  it  at  all.  Let  him  be  driven 
into  the  pulpit  by  God.  Let  him  expect  no  pay 
in  it,  but  rather  crucifixion,  and  rejection  by  this 
world.  But  if  it  is  in  a  man  to  preach;  if  he  must 
preach,  or  go  crying  "Woe  is  me!";  if  God  is  driving 
him  to  a  pulpit,  let  him  go;  and  whether  it  be  in  the 
way  of  the  schools,  or  contrary  to  all  the  rules  the 
schools  have  ever  taught,  let  him  preach  the  gospel 
to  this  sin-cursed  world. 


20         THE     BROADER     VISION 


A  SAINT 

She  was  never  canonized  by  any  church,  nor  did 
she  need  to  be.  Such  an  act  might  have  helped  the 
church  that  did  it,  but  not  her.  "Called  to  be 
saints,"  Paul  wrote  in  one  of  his  letters  to  some  such. 
There  have  been  saints  in  every  age  since  Christ  by 
his  blessedness  made  them  possible.  The  Roman 
Catholic  Church  has  adorned  history  with  their 
names,  and  we  are  glad  she  has.  To  know  who  the 
saints  were  and  what  they  did  is  good.  The  Prot- 
estant Church  has  had  as  many,  but  their  names 
are  not  blazoned  on  cathedral  walls.  Our  saint  was 
one  of  these. 

To  be  a  saint  is  easy  after  one  has  become  one. 
But  to  become  one  —  alas,  one  is  not  sanctified  after 
the  first  day's  trial.  The  Beulah  land  in  which 
souls  walk  with  God  is  a  high  table-land  among  the 
delectable  mountains.  To  them  John  wrote:  "Be- 
loved, now  are  we  the  sons  of  God."  Of  them 
Paul  declared:  "As  many  as  are  led  by  the  Spirit 
of  God,  they  are  the  sons  of  God."  And  no  one 
becomes  a  son  of  God  but  by  the  bestowal  of  that 
love  which  John  could  not  describe,  but  at  which 
he  marveled,  crying:  "Behold  what  manner  of  love." 
No  one  becomes  a  son  of  God  but  by  the  surrender 


A     S  A  I  NT  21 


that  makes  one  willing  to  be  led.  Of  such  a  one  we 
write.  For  a  son  of  God  and  a  daughter  of  God  are 
one.     There  is  no  sex  in  saintliness. 

What  was  her  name?  It  might  have  been  Cecilia, 
but  it  was  not.  It  might  have  been  Agnes,  but  it 
was  not.  Maiden,  wife,  mother,  and  widow,  she 
was  filial  in  her  childhood,  faithful  as  a  wife,  ten- 
derly loving  as  a  mother,  patient  in  her  widow- 
hood. Sorrow  only  softened  her;  grief  made  her 
ever  gentler;  straitness  did  not  narrow,  but  rather 
broadened  her.  Her  days  were  days  of  beauty  and 
of  grace.  We  have  known  a  man  whom  the  Chinese 
in  his  city  called  "the  man  with  the  Jesus  face." 
Our  saint  was  a  woman  with  the  Jesus  heart.  She 
followed  Christ;  not  at  a  distance,  so  far  away  that 
she  could  scarcely  see  him,  but  closely,  and  never 
with  downcast  eyes,  but  with  radiant  face  and 
uplifted  head. 

For  such  as  she  it  is  not  death  to  die,  nor  is  it 
life  to  live  here.  Birth,  life,  death,  are  but  three 
steps  from  the  unseen  eternity  out  of  which  we  come 
into  the  rest  that  remaineth  for  the  people  of  God. 
Oh,  how  hollow  are  the  plaudits  which  the  world 
shouts  for  them  whom  it  calls  great,  when  they 
come  into  comparison  with  the  "Well  done"  that 
affection  whispers  in  the  last  hour  into  ears  fast 
growing  deaf  to  all  earth's  dreary  noises.  For  "I 
heard  a  voice  from  heaven  saying  unto  me,  Write, 


22  THE     BROADER     VISION 

Blessed  are  the  dead  that  die  in  the  Lord.  Yes, 
saith  the  Spirit,  that  they  may  rest  from  their  labors; 
and  their  works  do  follow  them."  Blessed,  too,  are 
the  living  who  live  unto  the  Lord.  Yea,  saith  the 
Spirit,  that  they  may  walk  as  I  shall  lead,  and  be- 
come meet  for  an  inheritance  with  the  saints  in  light. 
Who  was  she?  A  saint.  Her  name?  No  matter. 
She  was  our  saint.  You  have  one.  Every  com- 
munity has  one.  They  are  the  lights  of  God  burning 
on  the  shores  of  time  to  guide  us  to  Christ. 


BRASS     AND     BLUE  23 


BRASS  AND  BLUE 

They  were  on  a  burly  man  who  stood  at  a  crowded 
street  crossing  in  a  great  city.  The  brass  was  in 
buttons  and  the  blue  was  in  broadcloth.  Authority 
was  conspicuous  in  every  action.  There  was  a 
double  car-line  on  the  street,  with  frequent  cars. 
Motors  and  carriages  rolled  swiftly  toward  the  rail- 
way terminal  at  that  corner.  Drays  and  carts  and 
loaded  freight  wagons  clattered  toward  the  freight 
houses,  two  blocks  away.  Foot  passengers  desirous 
to  cross  had  tribulations,  till  brass  and  blue  appeared. 

What  power  is  in  the  burly  man's  finger!  He 
stands,  helmet-crowned,  under  the  elevated  railway 
whose  station  overhead  darkens  the  crossing;  he 
holds  up  a  fat  hand;  he  beckons  with  a  finger  that 
moves  like  the  finger  of  a  stuffed  glove;  and  timid 
women  and  doubting  men  go  scudding  across  in 
safety.  Anon  he  waves  his  whole  hand,  and  the 
throng  on  foot  pauses,  while  cars  and  drays  and 
moving  four-wheelisms  pass  up  and  down  the  line 
of  road.     Then  the  reign  of  the  finger  begins  again. 

We  love  brass  and  blue.  We  do  not  know  his 
name,  but  he  is  the  great  city  incarnate.  He  is 
the  spirit  of  puissant  law.  No  monarch  more  potent 
anywhere  than  that  beckoning  forefinger  and  waving 


24  THE     BROADER     VISION 

hand.  In  their  realm  they  are  absolute.  Courts, 
counselors,  and  kings  might  learn  wisdom  from  that 
burly  man  in  brass  and  blue.  That  finger  will  never 
be  impeached;  it  fears  no  bomb-thrower;  yet  its 
beck  is  equal  to  the  voice  of  Czar  or  President.  It 
is  a  spirit,  a  principle,  a  policy.  It  is  the  protection 
which  a  great  city  affords  its  citizens.  It  is  a  voice 
saying  that  peace,  safety,  happiness  depend  upon 
each  citizen  surrendering  to  all,  and  all  to  each,  for 
just  a  moment  a  fraction  of  the  citizen's  inalien- 
able right.  Pedestrians,  pause  a  moment;  for  your 
patience  you  shall  have  peaceful  transit.  Carts, 
curb  your  clanging  onrush  for  a  little;  for  your 
courtesy  you  shall  have  your  full  chance.  Cart 
and  dray  and  wagon  and  motor  have  physical  might 
on  their  side;  they  could  easily  run  down  brass  and 
blue.  They  have  right  on  their  side,  too.  Were 
not  the  streets  built  for  them  to  use?  But  up  goes 
the  fat  finger,  and  they  all  stop. 

We  are  a  law-abiding  people.  Even  the  president 
of  the  great  corporation,  who  means  to  evade  the 
law  which  restricts  his  corporation's  greed  for  gain, 
will  respect  the  law  of  individual  right.  He  will  not 
steal  an  apple  from  an  apple-woman's  stand.  He 
will  not  go  counter  to  the  behests  of  brass  and  blue. 
Herein  lies  the  promise  of  stability  for  the  republic, 
in  the  fact  that  the  common  order  of  the  day  is 
honesty,  not  crime.     Twenty-five  thousand  people 


BRASS     AND     BLUE  25 

pass  brass  and  blue  every  day,  and  he  does  not  make 
one  arrest  a  week.  He  may  have  a  club  hanging 
at  his  belt,  and  a  gun  about  him  somewhere,  but  all 
we  see  is  his  potent  finger,  beckoning  or  pointing, 
or  his  eloquent  restraining  hand.  If  he  has  to  club 
a  man,  or  to  draw  his  gun,  it  is  in  a  calm,  cold,  law- 
governed  way,  and  the  throng  has  a  new  sense  of 
security,  after  club  or  gun  has  reduced  a  fractious 
citizen  to  order. 

Here's  to  the  perpetuity  of  the  order  of  brass  and 
blue!  In  reality  it  is  we  ourselves,  acting  for  the 
conservation  of  the  best  interests  of  society.  Here's 
to  the  health  and  happiness  of  the  man  who  gets 
us  all  across  the  crowded,  congested  thoroughfare, 
standing  as  he  must  for  hours  at  a  time  in  one 
place,  in  all  weathers,  with  finger  beckoning  or 
hand  waving.  Here's  to  American  obedience  to  the 
insignia  of  law;  here's  to  our  innate  intuitive  regard 
for  the  externals  of  power.  This  is  our  sovereign; 
not  the  man  in  khaki,  or  in  the  full-dress  of  khaki 
wearer's  commander,  who  drills  sometimes  and 
appears  upon  parade;  but  brass  and  blue  —  always 
with  us,  always  ready  to  do  a  helpful  thing,  always 
entitled  to  our  sympathy,  our  respect,  and  our 
regard. 


26  THE     BROADER     VISION 


THE  DAY  OF  THE  DRONE 

Inevitable.  Escape  from  it  is  impossible. 
Hustle  as  you  will,  the  hour  will  overtake  you  when 
you  must  succumb  to  the  divine  fiat.  There  is  too 
much  work  to  be  done  in  after  days,  after  months, 
after  years,  for  you  to  try  to  cram  it  all  into  one 
day,  one  month,  one  year.  The  day  of  the  drone 
will  have  its  place.  If  you  do  not  give  it  willingly, 
nature  will  force  it  in  upon  you. 

Rest  is  a  world-controlling  law  as  much  as  is 
work.  The  man  who  realizes  that  and  obeys  each 
law  is  wise.  Angels  are  singing  somewhere  always; 
bright  ones,  fair  ones.  Stop  beside  life's  weary 
road  and  listen.  Hear  the  song?  'Tis  but  the 
soughing  of  the  wind  in  the  trees,  you  say?  Yet 
is  it  one  of  the  angel  voices.  We  stop  to  hear  the 
sound  of  its  going  in  the  tops  of  the  trees,  and  in 
an  instant  rises  the  picture  of  the  barefooted  boy 
in  the  woodland  on  the  home  farm,  following  the 
cows  gathered  from  the  pasture  behind  the  woods. 
We  see  him  stop  to  listen  to  the  melody  breathed  by 
the  wind  through  big  dark  pines  and  sky-towering 
birches  and  sturdy  hickories,  and  we  forget  time  and 
place  as  we  try  to  fit  words  to  the  music  that  will 
express  our  sense  of  rest  and  peace.     It  is  the  droning 


THE     DAY     OF     THE     DRONE       27 

hour,  filled  with  the  song  that  will  lull  the  world  to 
sleep.  It  is  better  to  rest  than  to  break.  There  is 
a  drone  in  us  all  that  must  have  his  day.  It  is  better 
to  give  it  to  him  while  health  is  unbroken,  while 
strength  is  not  lessened,  while  the  heart  beats  nor- 
mally, while  the  nerves  are  unprostrated. 

Were  the  Sabbath  absolutely  kept  as  a  resting 
time  the  drone  would  need  fewer  days.  Were  our 
hours  of  work  shorter  —  or  better,  not  so  many  in 
number  (an  hour  cannot  be  shortened)  —  the  drone 
would  not  be  so  vociferous  in  his  demands.  But 
men  and  women  are  much  alike.  To  stop  the 
machine  seems  impossible.  Each  of  us  is  an  autocar, 
self-driven  along  the  vista  of  to-day,  at  a  pace  as 
swift  as  the  engine,  heart,  and  the  engineer,  will,  can 
make  it  go.  All  of  us  think  we  can  see  far,  far  ahead 
at  the  vista's  end  a  gate  marked  "by  and  by." 
There  is  the  spot  where  we  will  let  the  drone  become 
director,  we  think.  Oh,  the  pity  of  it!  The  road 
from  the  "now"  to  the  "by  and  by"  is  strewn  with 
wrecks ;  broken  machines,  frustrated  hopes,  defeated 
purposes,  unrealized  dreams,  fatuous  ambitions. 
For  one  who  passes  the  gate  a  thousand  lie  dead 
along  the  way. 

Give  the  drone  his  day.  Do  less,  that  you  may 
do  more.  Waste  a  few  moments  every  day  rather 
than  waste  yourself  wholly.  No  matter  how  full  of 
demands  your  vocation,  say  nay  to  them  and  have 


28  THE     BROADER     VISION 

a  vacation.  Vacate  your  office,  your  shop,  your 
study,  your  home,  yourself.  Send  self  off  to  the 
lakes,  the  sea,  the  mountains,  the  woods,  the  country 
farmhouse.     Give  the  drone  his  day. 

In  the  shadow  of  a  great  rock  lies  a  man.  His 
rolled-up  coat  makes  his  pillow.  The  morning  sun 
is  hot,  but  he  is  sheltered  in  the  shadow.  Above 
him,  far  up  above  him,  float  the  airships,  wingless, 
untillered,  moisture  laden,  graceful,  fleecy,  silver- 
gray,  new  miracles  hourly  of  divine  beauty.  They 
will  never  fall  and  dash  to  death  their  hapless  drivers. 
Our  drone  watches,  and  dreams  waking  dreams. 
You  pass  him  with  a  cheery  "  Hello !"  and  stopping 
ask,  "What  are  you  going  to  do  to-day?"  The 
lazy  answer,  punctuated  with  a  yawn,  comes  back: 
"Do?  Nothing.  Just  absolute,  unmolested  noth- 
ing." Then  he  turns  over,  crosses  his  arms  on  his 
coat  pillow,  and  lies  there  in  the  shadow  of  the 
rock.  Pass  on.  Never  try  to  write  it.  Let  it  be 
in  memory  the  un worded  poem  of  "The  Day  of 
the  Drone." 

The  face  that  looked  bloodless  a  month  ago  has 
taken  on  a  little  of  the  "done  brown"  look  with 
which  the  hand  that  wields  the  sun-ray  brush  is 
skilled  to  color  the  cheek.  "Sunburned,"  you  say? 
Oh,  no!  That  is  not  poetry,  and  all  that  a  soul 
should  know  when  the  "day  of  the  drone"  has  come, 
and  one  has  gone  to  the  land  where  "do"  is  a  word 


THE     DAY     OF     THE     DRONE       29 

of  an  unknown  language,  is  the  delightful,  dreamy, 
do-less,  drowsy  dynamic  called  poetry. 

To  whomsoever  is  trying  to  do  the  duty  of  the 
drone  in  the  "  day  of  the  drone,"  whether  by  shore  of 
ocean,  or  lake,  or  river;  whether  in  woodland  glen 
or  in  wilderness  camp,  whether  at  some  "Castle  of 
Indolence"  on  mountain  summit,  or  in  some  quiet 
farmhouse  far  from  the  whirl  and  the  honk  of  the 
automobile,  we  say  "Requiescas."  While  the  time 
for  doing  nothing  lasts,  do  nothing.  Be  a  happy 
nonentity  for  a  brief  summer  holiday. 

Remember  the  "day  of  the  drone"  and  keep  it 
drony.  Many  a  day  in  the  whirling  world  must  be 
full  of  care,  of  intense  activity,  of  manifold  worries, 
of  nagging  perplexities.  You  need  the  "day  of  the 
drone"  to  prepare  you  for  all  those.  Join  the  drone 
army.  Its  soldiers  need  never  drill.  They  carry 
no  weapons.  All  that  they  need  is  a  shaded  nook, 
a  pillow,  and  a  book. 

A  good,  dull,  prosy  book  is  the  best  soporific 
tablet  ever  devised.  Let  politics  go.  Let  the  stock 
market  go.  Let  life's  miseries  go.  Keep  your 
religion  calm,  sweet,  true,  but  do  not  let  it  work 
too  hard.  Be  a  drone,  a  conscientious  drone;  but 
when  the  hour  comes  that  being  a  drone  becomes 
a  burden,  cease.  Take  yourself  and  your  burden 
down  from  skyland  Utopia  and  get  into  the  current 
of  life.     In  droneland  there  must  be  no  burdens. 


30  THE     BROADER     VISION 


"WHAT  DO  YOU  READ,  MY  LORD?" 

The  question  of  Polonius  to  Hamlet  is  still  of 
interest.  Reading  is  a  mind  filler.  The  American 
morning  habit  is  fixed.  Breakfast  and  a  newspaper 
are  inseparable.  The  breakfast  may  contribute 
little  to  physical  resources,  but  the  man  who  must 
be  in  shop,  office,  mill,  store  or  other  fixed  toil  spot, 
or  on  his  way  there  by  eight  o'clock,  must  have  had 
breakfast  before  his  start,  or  his  toil  machinery  will 
not  be  in  proper  order.  Likewise  the  newspaper 
may  not  furnish  his  mind  with  anything  more 
nourishing  than  printed  bacon  and  eggs  and  coffee, 
but  the  mind  must  have  it,  or  there  will  be  a  feeling 
all  day  that  a  cog  has  slipped  somewhere  in  the 
machine.  The  trip  from  the  home  in  the  alley  or 
on  the  palace-lined  thoroughfare  to  the  working 
sections  of  town  can  be  traced  by  thrown-down 
daily  papers. 

Pass  through  a  tram  car,  or  the  car  of  a  suburban 
railway  train,  city  bound,  and  glance  at  the  open 
pages  in  the  hands  of  the  scanners  of  the  downpour 
of  the  press  storm  of  any  morning.  Some  eyes  are 
fixed  on  political  cartoons;  some  on  the  columns  of 
stock  quotations;  some  on  the  results  of  the  last 
day's  ball  games;    some  on  the  editorials.     Some 


DO     YOU     READ?"        31 


hands  are  turning  pages  in  a  nervous  way.  Before 
your  eye  is  a  picture  of  American  reading  life.  Re- 
trace your  steps.  Ask  each  reader  the  question 
from  Hamlet  and  you  may  receive  about  the  answer 
of  Hamlet:  "Words,  words,  words."  They  answer 
truly  when  to  your  question  men  reply:  "Nothing. 
The  paper  contains  nothing.,, 

Once  in  a  half  century  there  is  a  Titanic  disaster; 
once  or  twice  a  Chicago  fire;  not  oftener  a  San 
Francisco  horror.  The  rest  of  life's  daily  happen- 
ings are  only  so  many  words.  Great  sheets  of 
printed  paper,  and  nothing  making  a  mark  on  life. 
Papers  enough  are  thrown  away  between  New 
Orleans  and  Portland,  Atlanta  and  Chicago,  San 
Francisco  and  Halifax,  every  morning  to  blanket 
acres  of  prairie  land,  and  the  sum  total  of  real  im- 
pressions made  on  our  national  life  could  be  put  into 
the  mow  of  a  western  farmer's  barn. 

The  man  who  yesterday  was  planning  to  secure 
at  all  hazards  the  presidential  plum  for  a  first,  or 
second,  or  third  time  goes  right  on  planning  to-day, 
affected  in  no  way  by  his  morning  paper.  The 
stock  jobber  cudgels  his  almost  worn-out  brain  to 
find  new  schemes  by  which  to  infuse  new  life  into 
a  dead-and-dreary  stock  market.  The  typewriter 
girls  and  underpaid  clerks  of  both  sexes  flit,  shuttle- 
like, from  home  to  toil  and  from  toil  to  what  night 
may   bring  —  excitement,  pleasure,  ennui,   or   sin. 


32  THE     BROADER     VISION 

What  reading  they  may  have  done  makes  no  more 
mark  on  the  surface  of  their  brains  than  the  touch 
of  a  fly's  foot  on  a  window  pane.  3 

Is  it  any  wonder  that,  as  a  people  that  prides  itself 
on  knowing  so  much,  we  really  know  so  little?  We 
are  not  speaking  of  the  scholars,  the  scientific  men, 
the  specialists,  who,  as  a  whole,  are  few  measured 
against  our  one  hundred  millions  of  people,  but  of 
the  everyday  man  and  woman  who  plunge  along 
from  breakfast  to  bedtime  without  adding  one  new 
idea  to  their  stock,  be  it  great  or  small.  What  have 
all  these  read  in  the  last  three  hundred  and  sixty-five 
days?  Nothing.  Who  is  the  better  for  what  they 
have  read?  No  one.  What  great  upward  impulse 
has  national  life,  or  even  private  home  life,  received 
from  the  output  of  the  American  daily  press  to-day? 
None.  What  sort  of  crop  will  to-morrow  reap  from 
the  sowing  of  nothing  on  the  soil  of  life  to-day? 

There  has  never  been  such  an  epoch  of  opportunity 
in  the  history  of  the  world  as  is  this  of  to-day.  Peking 
and  New  York  shake  hands  every  morning.  London 
and  San  Francisco  say  good  night  to  each  other  with 
each  sundown.  The  north  pole  and  the  south  pole 
have  nodded  in  recognition  of  acquaintance  with 
each  other  after  an  eternity  of  isolation.  The  air 
talks  to  men  and  they  hear  the  sound.  There  is 
not  a  place  on  earth  where  a  man  can  hide.  The 
heavens  have  revealed  depths  so  remote  that  the 


"what    do    you    read?'5      33 

figures  which  tell  the  story  are  beyond  our  compre- 
hension.    And  "yet  there  is  no  open  vision." 

The  pygmy  financier  spends  himself  making  money 
and  spending  it  in  sums  that  make  the  rank  and  file 
of  life  stare  and  swear.  Political  parties  look  this 
way  and  that  for  men  —  colossal  men,  Abraham 
Lincoln  men,  Thomas  Jefferson  men,  Daniel  Webster 
men,  Wendell  Phillips  men,  William  Wirt  men, 
Henry  Ward  Beecher  men,  Horace  Greeley  men, 
Joseph  Medill  men,  and  cannot  find  them.  In  a 
newspaper  age,  in  an  every-man-reads  age,  where 
some  curious  Polonius  asks,  "What  do  you  read, 
my  lord?"  our  great  lord,  the  multitudinous,  break- 
fast-time reading  public  answers:  "Words,  words, 
words";  words  unsuggestive  of  ideas  —  words  jum- 
bled together  by  the  hundred  thousand  by  Swiftquill, 
the  reporter,  that  bear  no  uplifting  message  to  a 
soul;  words  that  run  into  deeply  worn  brain  paths 
that  lead  to  nothing. 

The  magazines  are  scarcely  better.  If  they  are 
strong,  edited  by  men  with  a  message  of  uplift  for 
life  and  with  purpose  and  power  to  give  it  utterance, 
they  yet  lie  by  the  ton  on  the  news  stands  at  the  end 
of  a  month  unsold.  They  must  be  filled  with  sport- 
ing stories,  with  baseball  attractions,  with  pictures 
of  the  Muggsys  and  Connies  and  Honuses  who  con- 
trol "the  diamond."  There  is  good  literature  on 
the  news  stands,  but  its  cost  condemns  it  when  put 


34  THE     BROADER     VISION 

in  competition  with  the  Sunday  morning  offering 
of  the  great  dailies.  The  before-quoted  proverb, 
"Reading  makes  a  full  man,"  must  be  changed  to 
read,  "Newspaper  reading  makes  a  fool  man." 
The  "Daily  Evening  Squib,"  sold  before  ten  o'clock 
in  the  morning,  forces  from  the  news  stands  by  sheer 
"fizzical"  energy  "The  Atlantic  Monthly,"  which 
was  once  the  mouthpiece  of  Thoreau  and  Lowell  and 
Oliver  Wendell  Holmes  and  Alcott  and  Emerson. 

The  shops  of  booksellers  have  shelves  filled  with 
the  treasures  of  the  ages,  but  in  the  windows  given 
to  advertising  are  novels,  novels,  novels.  Melo- 
drama long  ago  drove  the  essay  to  the  last  place  in 
the  corner  by  the  rear  wall  of  the  bookshop.  Look 
over  the  shoulder  of  the  pretty  girl  in  the  chair 
next  you  in  the  parlor  car.  You  will  find  her  read- 
ing "The  Prodigal  Judge."  Who  ever  saw  even  a 
college  girl  reading  "Sartor  Resartus"  or  "The 
Diamond  Necklace"  on  a  railway  train?  Perhaps 
the  title  of  "Diamond  Necklace"  might  captivate 
her,  but  the  reading  of  two  pages  of  Carlyle's 
masterly  vigor  would  condemn  humor  and  satire 
and  history  to  the  limbo  of  the  ash  barrel.  If  the 
boy  and  girl  readers  of  to-day  become  the  fathers  and 
mothers  of  to-morrow,  what  will  their  children  read? 
Will  they  follow  in  the  path  of  "Lydia  Languish" 
and  hide  their  books  from  the  vigilant  scrutiny  of 
the  Argus-eyed  aunt  when  she  appears?     Abraham 


DO     YOU     READ?'1        35 


Lincoln  was  made  on  the  dirt  floor  of  a  log  cabin 
by  three  great  books  —  the  Bible,  Shakspere,  and 
Blackstone.  Are  America's  future  Lincolns  being 
so  made  to-day? 

The  hour  has  struck  for  a  new  renaissance  —  a 
reading  renaissance.  Will  the  bell  stroke  be  heard 
by  America's  reading  millions? 

We  heard  the  question  asked  recently:  "Why  was 
there  no  'dark  horse'  run  in  the  race  for  the  presi- 
dential nominations?"  The  answer  came  without 
hesitation :  "There  are  no  ' dark  horses.' "  Is  it  true? 
Have  our  "simple  great  ones  gone  forever  and  ever 
by?"  What  has  produced  the  dearth?  We  have 
given  the  answer  already.  As  a  nation  reads,  so 
are  its  deeds,  and  we  have  become  a  people  whose 
only  reading  is  "words,  words,  words." 


36  THE     BROADER     VISION 


ON  HALLOWED  GROUND 

East  Northfield  is  worth  the  cost  of  reaching  it. 
The  white  houses,  the  green  blinds,  the  spreading 
elms,  the  robust,  stocky  maples,  the  dark-green 
pines,  the  encircling  hills,  the  distant  Green  Moun- 
tains, the  hermit  thrush,  the  flashing  bobolink,  the 
swinging  oriole,  all  are  abundant  compensation  for 
the  journey  hither.  On  Round  Top,  under  a  slender 
and  low-foliaged  birch,  we  sit  in  reverent  silence. 
Only  a  few  feet  away  is  the  spot  where  the  body  of 
one  of  earth's  great  men  was  laid,  not  many  years 
ago.  A  few  hundred  feet  farther,  along  the  high- 
way, stands  the  house  where  the  sleeper  was  born. 
The  farm  that  was  his  home  rolls  away  behind  the 
house  in  lowland  and  upland,  and  one  of  its  rollings 
is  the  mound,  pine-shaded,  maple-shaded,  where 
Dwight  Lyman  Moody  once  was  wont  to  speak 
"all  the  words  of  this  Life"  to  men.  There  a  stone 
now  proclaims  that  "he  that  doeth  the  will  of  God 
abide th  for  ever." 

This  is  East  Northfield.  Here  was  born  a  man 
who  had  through  all  his  life  an  unfaltering  and 
unwavering  trust  in  God.  Here  through  the  school 
year  live  four  hundred  and  fifty  girls,  in  an  atmos- 
phere surcharged  with  the  memory  of  a  man  who 


ON     HALLOWED     GROUND         37 

had  unfaltering,  unwavering  trust  in  God.  The 
conferences  held  here  are  spiritually  unique.  There 
is  no  higher  criticism  here;  there  are  no  vagaries. 
It  is  the  place  of  a  book,  of  an  old  book,  of  a  God- 
given  book.  The  atmosphere  is  one  of  spiritual 
religion.  And  perhaps  the  secret  which  differen- 
tiates this  place  from  all  others  is  the  small  green 
knoll  where  a  gray  stone  stands  in  mute  memorial 
of  the  man  who  was  born  here  more  than  seventy 
years  ago;  who,  while  he  lived,  had  unwavering  and 
unfaltering  trust  in  God,  and  who,  being  dead,  yet 
abideth  forever. 


38  THE     BROADER     VISION 


OUT  OF  THE  CITY 

Out  of  the  city:  out  of  the  hot,  baking  city.  Out 
from  between  the  rows  of  houses,  brick  and  stone, 
whose  walls  pour  forth  upon  the  sweltering  passer 
the  heat  which  the  sun  has  poured  into  them  all 
day.  Out  from  the  noise,  the  soul-racking  noise, 
of  the  trolley  car;  out  from  the  heavy  clatter  of 
heavy  carts  rumbling  over  cobblestone  pavements; 
out  from  the  jostling  crowd,  and  the  odors  that 
steam  from  open  doors  of  noisy  restaurants.  Out 
from  all  this  to  the  wide-open  country;  out  under 
the  trees,  under  the  sky,  into  the  air,  and  to  some 
resting-spot  on  God's  green  turf.  Out  to  an  open 
porch  across  which  the  coolest  of  breezes  blow,  while 
the  great  forest  trees,  swaying  in  the  wind,  tell  tales 
of  rustic  happiness  which  only  one  who  knows  tree 
language  can  understand. 

There  are  dreams  on  the  porch.  Life  sat  there  one 
yesterday,  not  long  ago,  breathing  deep  draughts  of 
health  and  peace,  and  the  dreams  came  crowding: 
dreams  of  the  old  countryside  and  the  vanished 
years;  of  the  long  lane  that  led  from  the  farmyard 
down  to  the  woods,  and  through  them  to  the  north 
pasture  where  the  cows  fed  by  day,  or  stood  knee- 
deep  in  the  pools  of  the  brook,  or  slept  under  the 


OUT     OF     THE     CITY  39 

spreading  elms.  There  was  the  shepherd  dog  again 
trotting  before,  now  chasing  a  wren  and  now  a 
weasel,  barking  in  glee  at  his  sport,  until  the  gate 
into  the  pasture  behind  the  woods  was  opened,  and 
he  was  told  to  go  and  bring  the  cows,  while  the 
barefooted  boy  sat  on  the  top  of  the  stone  wall  and 
watched  the  chipmunks  until  the  collie  brought 
the  kine.  Then  came  the  long  trudge  back  home 
again,  shortened  by  the  evening  song  of  the  red- 
breasted  thrush.  There,  too,  were  the  woodchucks 
out  on  the  hillside  nibbling  the  clover  as  the  sun 
went  down.  And  oh,  those  bobolinks !  swift-flashing 
poems  of  the  meadow-land,  swinging  in  rhythm, 
dropping  melody  from  the  tops  of  the  tall  timothy. 
There  was  the  rye  just  ready  to  be  cut.  There  were 
the  long  rows  of  corn  that  the  hot  days  of  early  July 
were  making  shoot  up  to  blossom  and  tassel  as  if 
by  magic.  Then  when  the  cows  were  milked  and 
the  "  chores "  were  done,  there  was  the  river,  cool, 
deep,  clear,  as  it  lay  in  eddies  under  the  banks;  or 
sparkling,  laughing  at  itself  as  it  broke  to  spray  over 
the  reefs,  the  shaly  out-cropping  rocks  that  vainly 
tried  to  bar  the  way. 

There  was  the  plunge  into  the  old  swimming-hole. 
And  when  the  moon  was  full,  and  its  silvery  light 
danced  in  the  rippling  water,  there  was  the  long  pull 
over  the  stretch  of  water  below  the  falls.  Sometimes 
there  were  other  boats,  and  from  the  little  flotilla 


40  THE     BROADER     VISION 

went  out  songs  and  laughter  that  was  light  and 
gleeful  from  the  hearts  of  care-free  girls,  and  one 
boy  at  least  knew  where  there  were  bright  eyes  and 
a  rosy  face.  Ah,  those  eyes,  those  faces!  They 
have  vanished  long  ago,  and  those  years  are  far 
away. 

Filled  with  such  reveries,  life  sat  out  on  the  porch 
in  the  cool  green  country.  It  did  not  sit  alone. 
Its  mysterious  other  part,  that  men  call  the  soul, 
was  life's  companion,  and  though  they  said  no  word 
that  other  ears  could  hear,  they  held  a  converse 
that  filled  them  both  with  peace.  And  the  breezes 
of  the  summer  night,  laden  now  with  laughter  and 
now  with  jest  and  now  with  thought  more  sober 
and  sedate,  went  by.  Soul  spoke  at  last  to  life. 
"Life,  oh,  Life,  my  dear  companion,  the  pity  that 
all  this  must  end!  To-morrow  you  must  go  back 
into  the  crowded  streets,  into  the  heat  and  bustle 
and  turmoil  of  the  world." 

But  life  made  answer:  "Peace,  oh,  soul!  Let  us 
not  complain.  Some  day,  by  and  by,  we  shall  go 
out  together  into  the  great  beyond,  out  of  the  stress 
of  the  world  with  its  cares,  out  of  the  earth  filled 
with  the  griefs  of  the  ages,  out  of  strife,  out  of  hate, 
out  of  unrest,  over  the  river  into  the  great  beyond. 
There  is  the  stream,  clear  as  crystal,  flowing  out  from 
the  throne  of  God.  There  is  the  tree  of  life.  There 
is  the  great  company  which  no  man  can  number. 


OUT     OF     THE     CITY  41 

There  is  no  sun  there  by  day,  nor  any  heat,  for  the 
Lamb  of  God  is  the  light  of  the  city,  and  the  nations 
of  the  saved  walk  in  the  peace  and  the  beauty  and 
the  glory." 

Then  answered  the  soul :  "  Yes,  that  is  true.  There 
are  a  few  more  days  of  toil,  of  burden,  of  trouble  and 
of  care,  and  then  eternal  peace.'' 


42  THE     BROADER     VISION 


CUT  BACK 

"  Sermons  in  stones;  books  in  the  running  brooks"; 
teachers  in  trees.  Twelve  of  these  teachers  in  a  row 
on  one  short  city  block.  Apostolic  number;  and 
the  first  in  the  row  a  veritable  apostle  among  trees. 
Battle-scarred  veteran  is  he.  The  gypsy  moth  has 
attacked  him  year  after  year,  and  borers  which  no 
tree-doctor's  knife  has  removed  have  eaten  away 
at  his  bole  and  left  him  but  little  strength  wherewith 
to  stand.  He  and  his  comrades  have  suffered  dis- 
cipline of  late.  The  tree  specialist  passed  along  last 
winter,  lopping  off  branches  in  what  seemed  reck- 
less, ignorant  wastefulness.  The  row  of  trees  stood 
cropped,  clipped,  cut  back,  looking  like  stumps  with 
a  few  stiff  sticks  protruding  from  their  tops.  "They 
will  be  all  right  when  summer  comes,"  said  the 
specialist. 

The  battle-scarred  warrior  at  the  corner  was  an 
unsightly  object.  His  wrecked  bole  was  filled  with 
cement;  his  branches  were  cut  back,  leaving  two 
fork-tine  limbs  above  the  stump,  two  branches  on 
one,  one  on  the  other.  The  eye  could  see  no  twigs, 
no  bud-holding  axils  where  new  growth  might  come. 

March  came  with  its  bluster;  April  with  its 
wooing  moisture;    leafy  May;    and  lo!  along  the 


CUTBACK  43 


block  is  a  row  of  shapely  tops,  covered  with  fluttering 
poplar  and  aspen  foliage  that  hides  the  ugly  awk- 
wardness left  by  the  knife.  Round,  graceful,  green, 
those  trees  are  saying  to  every  passer:  "He  knew. 
The  man  who  gave  us  saw  and  knife  and  limitations 
and  wrecked  symmetry  knew;   and  we  rejoice." 

As  for  the  old  tree  at  the  corner,  his  returning 
comeliness  is  a  matter  for  another  summer.  But 
he  has  buckled  to  with  the  vigor  left  him,  and  at 
every  spot  where  life  had  left  him  half  a  chance,  he, 
too,  rejoices  in  his  fluttering  leaves.  And  in  their 
leafy  voice  a  message  comes  to  the  listener. 

"You  call  life  hard,  do  you?  You  lament  because 
you  are  growing  old?  You  grieve  because  the  storms 
have  twisted  you,  and  the  winds  have  broken  your 
branches,  and  the  gypsy  moth  has  eaten  at  your 
freshness  and  beauty,  and  the  borer  has  weakened 
your  strong  stand  in  the  midst  of  surrounding  life? 
You  cry  out  because  the  Power  with  the  pruning 
knife  has  cut  you  back?  Look  at  me !  I,  too,  thought 
once  that  everything  was  against  me.  But  day  has 
broken  again,  even  for  me.  Life  returns  with  a 
fresher  bloom,  even  to  me.  The  stars  from  far  away 
let  fall  their  shimmering  light,  for  me.  Fanned  by 
the  breezes,  kissed  by  the  sunbeams,  given  to  drink 
from  those  ever-full  ewers,  the  clouds,  my  spirit 
longs  to  mount  up  on  wings  like  the  eagle  that  rises 
from  the  pine  on  the  mountain  crest." 


44  THE     BROADER     VISION 

As  the  leafy  voice  dies,  the  sweep  of  thought  goes 
rushing  on  the  track  of  the  tree's  lesson.  Can  life 
be  all  springtime?  Can  growth  go  on  unchecked 
forever?  Must  it  be  that  for  us  no  lightnings  shall 
flash  in  the  sky,  no  thunders  roll?  Must  pains 
never  rack,  because,  forsooth,  we  like  them  not? 
Must  the  pruning  knife  never  touch  us?  When  we 
make  growth  that  is  too  lush,  that  develops  along 
one  line  alone,  leaving  other  parts  in  our  complex 
selves  puny,  weak,  crippled,  shall  not  the  knife 
that  cuts  us  back  send  its  sharp  pain  into  our  hearts? 
He  who  is  eternal,  Creator  and  Ruler  of  a  universe 
of  whose  immensity  we  as  yet  have  but  a  hint,  still 
finds  time  to  watch  the  little  twig  upon  the  individual 
life  tree,  and  cuts  it  back  if  it  shows  signs  of  growing 
as  it  should  not. 

If  there  is  life  in  the  root,  to  cut  back  is  only 
a  challenge  to  a  contest  in  which  victory  means 
renewed  beauty.  Over  the  life  of  George  Matheson, 
when  his  "flickering  torch"  was  yielded  back  to  God, 
one  might  have  written  "Hopeless  —  cut  back  — 
ruined."  But  for  George  Matheson,  cutting  back 
was  only  the  process  by  which  he  was  made  a  shapely 
tree  whose  fluttering  leaves  have  rejoiced  the  world. 
To  real,  throbbing  life,  God's  disciplines,  trials, 
privations,  limitations,  disappointments,  are  only 
preparations  for  a  something  of  which  it  had  not 
dreamed  before. 


CUTBACK  45 


Who  knows  what  the  old,  cut-back  tree  will  do? 
Who  knows  what  the  cut-back  life  can  do?  "Who 
knoweth  the  things  of  a  man  save  the  spirit  of  man 
which  is  in  him?"  God  is  the  pruner.  He  knows 
how  and  when  and  where  to  cut.  Life  may  have 
its  winter.  It  will  also  have  its  spring.  And  the 
life  that  has  been  most  cut  back  may  in  its  summer 
be  covered  over  with  fluttering  leaves  of  graces, 
beauties,  lovelinesses,  which  but  for  the  prunings 
would  never  have  been  seen. 


46  THE     BROADER     VISION 


THE  EDGE  OF  THE  CLIFF 

Surprise  was  surpassed  only  by  wonder.  We 
had  lost  our  way  on  a  mountain  tramp.  At  an  un- 
marked point  where  the  broad  woods  path  parted 
like  the  top  of  a  "Y"  we  turned  the  wrong  way, 
and  after  a  half  hour  found  ourselves  in  a  broad, 
dusty  wagon  road.  There  was  no  hint  here  that  we 
were  not  tramping  toward  our  destination,  and  to 
follow  the  road  was  easy.  Through  shaded  vistas 
the  yellow  ribbon  of  road  went,  sometimes  straight, 
sometimes  tortuous,  but  always  beautiful.  An  hour 
brought  the  end,  for  the  road  made  a  loop  and  wound 
back  upon  itself.  To  continue  walking  was  to 
retrace  our  steps. 

A  wide  smooth  rock  sloped  gently  up  from  one 
side  of  the  road  and  ended  abruptly  in  a  sharp  line 
against  the  distant  sky.  The  impulse  to  walk  up 
that  slope  and  lie  flat  on  our  backs  in  the  morning 
sun  was  too  strong  to  resist,  and  we  followed  the 
bent  of  impulse.  Slowly  we  went  up  the  slope,  ten 
rods  perhaps,  twenty  it  may  be,  and  then  came  the 
surprise  which  passed  swiftly  into  all  soul-filling 
wonder. 

What  had  seemed  like  a  line  against  a  far-off  sky 
was  the  edge  of  a  cliff.     Sheer  down  went  the  line 


THE     EDGE     OF     THE     CLIFF      47 

of  vision,  a  hundred  feet,  two  hundred,  five  hun- 
dred, a  thousand,  to  the  valley  below.  An  ocean  of 
green  lay  there  in  forests  sweeping  away  until  forest 
ceased  and  meadow  began,  and  the  broad  landscape 
stretched  on  and  up  toward  other  woodlands  cov- 
ering the  declivities  of  far-off  hills.  Through  the 
valley,  now  gleaming  in  the  sunlight,  now  hidden  by 
its  own  high  banks,  ran  a  stream,  unbroken  by  a  fall. 
Smoke  columns  rising  straight  toward  the  sky,  or 
curling  in  spirals  as  the  wind  currents  caught  them, 
told  the  story  of  farmhouses  hidden  by  copses,  and 
of  a  weary,  long-houred  workaday  life  of  which  the 
bulk  of  the  city  world  knows  nothing. 

Far  away  to  the  right  loomed  the  masses  of  the 
Hudson  river  highlands.  Through  one  gap  in  the 
distant  environment  glimmered  a  silvery  sheen 
made  by  the  waters  of  the  great  river  of  old  Hendrik 
Hudson.  Giving  the  eye  farther  sweep  to  the  right 
brought  into  view  the  New  Jersey  uplands.  Behind, 
directly  behind,  the  gaze  overlooked  the  forest 
through  which  we  had  passed  and  caught  the  view 
of  distant  ridges,  piled  ridge  on  ridge,  ever  higher 
and  higher  against  the  sky. 

We  were  the  central  figure  of  a  world  before  un- 
known. No  place  that  for  covered  head.  The 
dominance  of  divine  power  was  irresistible.  One 
great  sentence  from  life's  commonplace  book  went 
reverberating  from  brain  to  heart,  from  heart  to  soul, 


48  THE     BROADER     VISION 

and  so  out  into  the  vast  outspread  infinities:  "Be 
still  and  know  that  I  am  God."  How  can  a  human 
soul  come  thus  face  to  face  with  the  All  Soul  of  eter- 
nity and  not  be  bent  in  reverential  awe?  The  vast  is 
so  vast.  How  strange  that  through  the  little  wicket 
gate  of  vision  a  scene  surrounding  one  on  every  side 
for  fifty  miles  can  pass  into  a  human  soul. 

One  who  thinks  can  begin  to  realize  why  God  is 
mindful  of  man.  God's  handiwork!  How  great  it 
is!  Yet  it  cannot  comprehend  man.  It  cannot  in 
an  instant  enfold  him,  grasp  him,  measure  him, 
remember  him.  But  man  at  the  center  of  his  moun- 
tain-rimmed circle,  a  hundred  miles  across  from  edge 
to  edge,  turns  slowly  around  and  has  the  picture 
painted  within  him  somewhere  in  colors  that  will 
never  pale,  and  behind  it  all  feels,  what  nothing  else 
earthly  can  feel,  the  presence  of  God. 

On  the  edge  of  the  cliff  we  seat  ourselves  to  think. 
Did  Jesus  sit  on  such  a  spot  as  this  when  he  saw  all 
the  kingdoms  of  the  world  and  the  glory  of  them? 
Was  the  great  temptation  only  spiritual?  What  did 
the  Carpenter  of  Nazareth  know  of  the  kingdoms  of 
the  world?  Had  he  in  boyhood  climbed  the  heights 
of  northern  Palestine  and  seen  entranced  the  hills 
and  valleys  of  his  native  land?  Had  he  beheld  the 
long  line  of  Jordan  as  it  poured  out  from  the  Sea 
of  Galilee  and  wound  a  way  to  its  abnegation  in  the 
Sea  of  Sodom?    Had  he  gazed  far  west  at  the  Medi- 


THE     EDGE     OF     THE     CLIFF        49 

terranean  over  which  the  triremes  of  the  world  had 
passed  when  Greece  fought  Troy  and  Rome  fought 
Carthage  and  its  green  waters  were  incarnadined  by 
war?  From  the  memory  of  such  heights  did  there 
come  to  him  visions,  spiritual  visions,  of  what  it 
would  mean  to  be  the  lord  of  the  kingdoms  of  the 
world? 

That  must  have  been  a  real  temptation.  Nazareth 
was  limited.  Poverty  was  grinding.  His  mother's 
words  as  to  his  destiny  were  always  in  his  soul. 
The  voice  at  the  Jordan  had  named  him  "Son  of 
God."  Why  live  the  limited  life,  endure  the 
grinding  wretchedness?  Why  not  make  his  own 
destiny  and  make  it  now?  If  Son  of  God,  why  not 
be  Son  of  God  with  power?  Was  the  edge  of  the  cliff 
thus  danger-fraught  to  him?  There  is  no  record  as 
to  how  in  all  this  he  suffered,  except  that  it  was 
temptation,  and  we  know  that  when  temptation  is 
temptation  it  means  suffering  if  we  resist.  But  oh, 
the  Man  he  was!  "Get  thee  hence."  That  is  the 
record,  and  the  edge  of  the  cliff  became  to  him  only 
a  memory. 

Thought  takes  another  turn  as  we  look  at  the 
ragged  confusion  of  broken  rocks.  Some  he  far 
down  the  perpendicular  wall,  heaped  round  its  base. 
Some  are  caught  in  fissures  lower  down  than  we  are 
sitting,  yet  high  above  the  mountain's  foot.  On  the 
great  flat  surface  are  striations  that  the  scientific 


50  THE     BROADER     VISION 

man  says  were  made  by  grinding  ice  floes  in  remote 
ages.  Climb  down  the  cliff  in  spots  where  you  may 
amid  the  strata  piled  layer  on  layer,  and  now  and  then 
a  gap  between  two  layers,  so  wide  at  the  face  of  the 
rock  that  one  may  crawl  in  as  into  the  opening  of  a 
cave.  But  this  is  no  gateway  to  hidden  mysteries. 
Twenty  feet  in,  the  top  and  bottom  edges  of  the  two 
layers  touch,  showing  that  once  they  lay  as  parallel 
rocks.  What  tilted  one  and  left  the  other?  What 
uplifted  this  mighty  mountain  mass  two  thousand 
feet  above  the  level  of  the  sea,  and  from  how  many 
thousand  feet  below,  who  knows? 

Once  more  breathing  through  the  stunted  yellow 
pines  comes  the  voice  on  the  morning  breeze:  "Be 
still,  and  know  that  I  am  God."  Our  soul  answers: 
"We  hear;  we  obey."  On  the  edge  of  the  cliff  is 
written  in  an  alphabet  which  only  devout  reverence 
can  read:  "God  hath  made  all  things  by  the  word  of 
his  power."  What  are  our  little  years,  our  little 
centuries,  our  little  longest  ages?  Nothing.  Moses 
was  right.  "A  thousand  years  as  yesterday." 
What  is  our  little  world,  our  little  solar  system,  our 
little  universe  to  Him  whose  being,  whose  domain 
has  neither  a  beginning  nor  an  end?  Nothing.  Out 
into  the  infinite  goes  our  soul  as  we  sit  on  the  edge  of 
the  cliff.  A  speck,  we;  that  is  all.  But  the  speck, 
because  made  in  his  image,  can  follow  from  this  rock 
fastness,  this  trace  of  his  footprints  in  the  vanished 


THE     EDGE     OF     THE     CLIFF      51 

eternities,  to  that  spot  hid  from  all  earthly  gaze 
where  he  reveals  himself  in  love,  even  into  the  secret 
chamber  of  our  own  soul. 

We  rise  from  the  edge  of  the  cliff  and  turn  back- 
ward with  the  words  of  the  One  Hundred  and 
Third  Psalm  ringing  all  through  our  being  because 
of  the  lost  trail  and  the  new  vision  of  the  glory  of 
God's  world. 


52  THE     BROADER     VISION 


MOUNTAIN  TO  SHORE 

"Facilis  descensus"  —  so  the  Roman  poet  wrote 
ages  ago.  That  was  true  in  nature,  science,  and 
morals  then,  and  is  still.  A  brakeless  vehicle  on  a 
mountain  road  has  more  than  once  found  itself 
breakable.  Memory  tells  us  of  a  bicycle  and  its 
rider,  sound  and  safe  at  the  top  of  a  hill  on  a  country 
road,  smashed  and  bruised  at  the  bottom  of  the  hill 
—  the  very  Avernus  of  a  hill.  The  aeroplanist  is 
learning  the  lesson,  but  multitudes  of  victims  to 
untoward,  swift  descent  have  not  perceptibly  les- 
sened the  number  of  pupils  in  the  school  of  heaven- 
tempting.  Those  old  Babel  men  had  a  safer  time 
in  scaling  heaven.  The  run  down  the  grade  also 
from  integrity  to  utter  vagabondage  and  moral 
brokenness  can  be,  often  is,  swiftly  made. 

This  is  the  somber  side  of  the  "facilis  descensus" 
proposition.  There  is,  however,  a  brighter  one. 
Coasting  on  snow  crust  in  the  winter,  with  good 
company,  in  well-manned,  well-steered  sleds,  is  as 
good  as  an  automobile  joy  ride,  and  going  down  from 
high  points  of  vision  to  the  green  pastures  and  still 
waters  of  valleys  far  below  is  full  of  delight  as  stage 
or  touring  car  takes  one  smoothly  from  elevated 
laziness  to  the  calling  activities  of  a  busy  world. 


MOUNTAIN     TO     SHORE  53 

So  our  descent  from  mountain  to  shore  on  a  recent 
day  was  easy,  not,  indeed,  to  an  Avernus,  but  to  a 
waiting  pulpit  in  a  city  by  the  sea.  In  the  morning 
we  were  eighteen  hundred  feet  above  tidewater. 
Twenty  miles  over  to  the  northwest  towered  the 
crests  of  Rip  Van  Winkle's  mountain  bedroom. 
Between  eye  and  mountain  summit  stretched  the 
waveless  ocean  of  green  tops.  Filling  the  lungs  was 
the  dustless,  smokeless  air.  If  such  air  were  a  liquid 
it  would  be  for  drinking  the  elixir  of  life.  At  night 
we  were  where  the  mountain  streams  which  come  out 
of  hundreds  of  thousands  of  springs  had  found  their 
last  level  in  the  wide  rolling  ocean.  In  the  harbor 
were  riding  the  hulks  of  ships  from  every  part  of  the 
world.  Along  the  coast  line,  east  and  south  for 
hundreds  of  miles,  were  sprinkled  the  cottages  and 
villas  of  multitudes  seeking  rest  and  escape  from  the 
torrid  stretches  of  city  avenues  in  the  heated  July 
days. 

Eighteen  hundred  feet  down,  but  every  drop  of 
one  hundred  feet  meant  a  rise  of  a  half  degree  in  the 
crystal  tube  where  the  mercury  rises  and  falls;  the 
telltale  column  by  which  the  sweltering  thousands 
in  summer,  the  freezing  thousands  in  winter,  gauge 
their  comfort  or  discomfort,  their  happiness  or 
misery.  Altitude  down,  temperature  up.  Seventy- 
nine  degrees  Fahrenheit  in  the  mountains  in  the 
morning;  ninety-two  degrees  at  the  shore  when  at 


54         THE     BROADER     VISION 

night  we  have  reached  it.  The  transit  was  easy. 
That  was  only  a  matter  of  horses  and  carriage 
wheels,  of  a  locomotive  and  car  wheels,  but  to 
balance  the  difference  between  seventy-nine  and 
ninety-two  was  a  different  matter. 

To  meet  and  keep  a  promise  takes  us  down  from 
mountain  to  shore.  Moralists  have  said  in  varying 
form  that  the  mere  doing  of  duty  is  abundant  and 
sufficient  satisfaction  to  a  soul.  To  keep  a  promise 
is  to  perform  a  duty,  and  one  who  does  so  virtuous  a 
thing  should,  according  to  the  moralist,  be  supremely 
happy.  But  we  confess  that  eighteen  hundred 
feet  down  and  thirteen  degrees  up  seemed  a  big 
price  to  pay  for  the  fulfillment  of  duty,  and  as 
we  realized,  through  the  sleepless  hours  of  that  first 
night  by  the  shore,  how  hot  a  hot  night  can  be  when 
the  memory  of  the  coolness  of  the  night  before  in 
the  mountains  is  fresh  we  shook  our  doubled  fist  at 
duty  and  cried  in  true  Hamletian  way:  "A vaunt! 
and  quit  my  sight." 

This  little  holiday,  vacation  day  experience  be- 
longs to  the  natural  world  and  is  inevitable.  One 
must  go  down  from  idleness  on  the  heights  to  the 
stern  activities  of  the  lowlands.  Toil,  stress,  heat, 
duty,  are  all  in  the  day's  work,  and  he  is  indeed 
blessed  who  with  steady  hand  and  unceasing  purpose 
does  his  day's  work.  There  are  fifty  millions  like 
him,  as  far  as  the  call  and  the  labor  are  concerned. 


MOUNTAIN     TO     SHORE  55 

The  safety  and  perpetuity  of  the  republic  lie  in  the 
fact  that  half  at  least  of  those  millions  do  with 
steady  joy  change  the  mountain  for  the  shore  day 
after  day. 

There  are  millions  with  whom  patriotism  is  a 
larger  word  than  personality.  'Tis  "Heigh  ho,  the 
wind  and  the  rain"  with  the  best  bulk  of  American 
life.  We  will  take  what  comes  when  it  comes.  If 
it  is  up  to-day  to  ecstatic  altitudes,  good.  Let  the 
voice  of  ecstasy  ring  clear.  If  it  is  down  to-morrow 
to  heat-burned,  murk-filled  shore  depressions,  good. 
Let  the  hand  of  earnestness  tug  at  the  toughest  toil 
till  triumph  comes.  Only  the  craven  yield  to  stress. 
Only  the  pampered  submit  to  life's  discomforts. 
The  normal  life  takes  what  the  day  brings.  The 
abnormal  man  moons  over  memories  —  a  senti- 
mentalist who  does  not  comprehend  how  sentiment 
may  be  a  spur  to  drive  one  faster  toward  a  distant 
goal,  but  that  sentimentality  is  only  a  mushroom 
mooning.  The  value  of  the  mountain  is  its  inspira- 
tion for  the  hour  of  coping  with  the  shore. 

The  passers  on  the  way  of  life  make  two  mighty 
counter  currents.  One  is  a  tide  rising  slowly  up  and 
up,  bearing  its  freightage  of  individuality  to  heights 
of  success,  of  wealth,  of  knowledge,  of  power,  of 
self -conquest,  and  therefore  of  real  ability  to  enjoy. 
The  other  is  a  stream  moving  steadily  toward  the 
ocean.     Sometimes  dashing  down  precipices  victims 


56  THE     BROADER     VISION 

of  self -ruin,  sometimes  whirling  in  eddies  the  debris 
of  life,  sometimes  bearing  along  on  its  strong,  even 
bosom  purposeful  energy  returning  to  the  rock  and 
roll  and  sweep  of  the  vast  multitudinous  life  of 
the  lowlands.  Humanity  going  up;  humanity  going 
down.  That  is  the  story.  From  shore  to  mountain, 
when  the  hour  for  rest  and  recreation  comes.  From 
mountain  to  shore  when  duty  calls,  or  work  must  be 
done,  or  a  hand  is  wanted  to  underwrite  life's  ven- 
tures, or  a  voice  is  needed  to  sound  with  eloquence 
truth's  propaganda. 

A  life  all  mountain  would  be  inane.  A  life  all 
shore  would  land  the  world  in  a  lunatic  asylum. 
All  anything  is  a  misfortune.  The  Eskimo  is  an 
all  high  latitude  man  of  heavy  motion,  of  dull  intel- 
lect, of  narrow  ideas,  of  few  ideals.  The  tropical 
African  is  a  baked  man,  a  browned  man,  with  charred 
brains  and  seared  conscience  and  crinkled  wits. 
The  bleached  man  of  the  temperate  zones,  the  man 
whose  blood  and  passions  are  cooled,  but  yet  who 
mingles  in  himself  the  least  that  is  bad  and  the  most 
that  is  good  of  hot  and  cold  climates,  is  the  one  who 
has  done  the  work  of  the  world. 

Of  course  in  this  as  in  all  things  there  are  excep- 
tions to  the  rule.  But  they  are  exceptions.  Shaks- 
pere  has  but  one  Othello.  France  has  but  one 
Dumas  pere  and  one  Dumas  fits.  America  has  not 
looked  for  her  soldiers,  poets,  orators,  statesmen,  to 


MOUNTAIN     TO     SHORE  57 

the  Arctic  lands,  nor  to  the  Latin-American  peoples 
about  the  southern  shores  of  the  Mexican  gulf.  We 
can  play  for  a  summer's  day  among  icebergs,  or  for 
a  winter  hour  under  the  palm  trees ;  but  for  the  work 
that  counts,  look  to  the  peoples  whose  life  in  tem- 
perate regions  carries  them  backward  and  forward 
between  shore  and  mountain,  and  mountain  and 
shore. 


58  THE     BROADER     VISION 


PENDULUMS 

The  vast  golden  ball,  time  marker  for  unknown 
ages  to  vanished  myriads  of  men,  hangs  low  in  the 
haze  of  the  close  of  the  midsummer  days  above 
the  rolling  outline  of  the  hills.  It  is  for  the  world 
the  pendulum  of  the  clock  of  infinite  years.  The 
watcher  across  the  valleys  sees  the  great  orb  go 
farther  and  ever  farther  southward  down  the  moun- 
tain line  as  June  becomes  July,  and  July  August, 
and  August  nears  September.  Sunset  is  a  little 
earlier  each  night.  Steadily  lower  and  ever  lower 
the  pendulum  swings,  held  by  a  rod  invisible,  that 
stretches  out  across  the  illimitable  infinite  to  the 
grasping  hand  of  God.  Down  it  goes,  carrying  day 
away  from  us  to  the  dwellers  in  another  hemisphere, 
leaving  for  us  the  long  winter  nights,  making  us 
wrap  in  furs,  making  us  set  all  the  fires  ablaze, 
making  us  count  the  days  until  the  winter  solstice 
comes  and  the  swing  southward  over  the  mighty 
arc  of  space  is  ended. 

That  long  swing  has  added  a  half  year  to  our  lives. 
What  mighty  changes  have  come  in  the  world 
while  the  celestial  pendulum  has  last  swung  twice 
across  its  arc!  An  old  empire  dies.  An  old  dynasty 
perishes.     An  old  custom  disappears.     An  emperor 


PENDULUMS  59 

passes  away  whose  single  life  has  directed  more 
changes  in  his  nation's  life  than  had  occurred,  all 
combined,  in  a  millennium.  A  new  political  party 
is  created.  The  cross  of  Christ  becomes  more  potent 
because  of  the  lengthening  of  its  shadow  in  Oriental 
lands.  The  sound  of  the  events  of  the  year,  when 
all  sounds  are  combined,  is  only  one  more  tick  of  the 
clock  of  the  ages  that  marks  the  steady  oncoming  of 
the  rule  of  Jehovah  over  the  world. 

So,  as  we  watch  the  sunset  this  August  night,  we 
think  of  the  steady  certainty  of  the  elemental  con- 
ditions that  make  for  purity  and  peace  and  power. 

There  is  a  faint  crescent  just  above  the  rim  of 
the  mountains  to-night.  It  is  the  new  moon.  The 
thread  of  gold  that  marks  the  whole  sphere,  the 
thread  reflected  from  the  mirroring  atmosphere  of 
earth,  is  the  prophecy  of  the  full  round  of  glory  that 
will  shine  in  a  fortnight  above  the  rim  of  the  moun- 
tains to  the  east  beyond  the  river.  Across  from 
west  to  east  swings  the  moon.  Downward,  upward, 
from  north  to  south  and  returning,  oscillates  the  sun 
god.  Only  a  month  for  the  full  forward  and  back- 
ward swing  of  the  one;   a  whole  year  for  the  other. 

But  the  months  of  the  month-maker,  the  moon 
(we  should  by  right  call  it  a  "moonth"),  are  won- 
derful. June  and  early  July  bring  the  days  of  earth's 
laurel  glory.  These  white  gleaming  wood  spirits  are 
themselves    a   pendulum.     They    float    in,    wafted 


60  THE     BROADER     VISION 

along  by  the  morning  and  evening  breeze  of  the 
mountains,  called  to  radiance  by  the  kiss  of  the  warm 
sunlight,  filtering  down  through  o'erclouding  foliage, 
and  having  poured  their  fragrance  on  the  air  for 
a  time  all  too  short,  vanish.  Whither?  Perhaps 
through  Homer's  "horn  gate  of  dreams."  For 
dreams  they  are,  matchless  in  beauty,  simplicity 
and  reality.  Spirits  of  the  mountains;  caught  by  the 
sunlight  and  held  captive  until  they  have  paid  their 
tribute  of  beauty  to  the  treasury  of  time.  In  and 
out,  in  and  out,  year  after  year,  in  dell,  in  glade,  on 
rock-ridged  banks  of  mountain  lakes,  in  spots  where 
no  eye  ever  sees,  they  come  and  go;  year  after 
year  spirits  unstained  by  earth's  contaminations. 

But  the  moon  pendulum  is  no  niggard  in  its  dis- 
pensation of  loveliness.  Go  out  along  the  cliffs  that 
overhang  the  valley  on  the  east.  You  are  above  the 
tree  tops  now.  Away  the  green  sea  of  tree-top  ver- 
dure spreads,  filling  one  with  longing  for  wing  or 
foot,  like  bird  or  squirrel,  to  go  flying,  leaping  from 
green  tip  to  green  tip,  in  wild  happiness  and  perfect 
safety.  When  the  story  of  the  laurel  has  faded,  the 
wonder  of  the  tree- top  sea  begins.  Over  it  suddenly 
is  spread  a  silvery-yellow  beauty,  as  if  some  goddess 
of  the  Titan  age  had  cast  a  web  of  rare  embroidery. 
Chestnut  blossoms,  of  color  indescribable,  flame, 
flash  in  the  light  like  dancing  torches  as  the  wind 
tosses  the  branches.     Between  the  spots  of  mellow 


PENDULUMS  61 

light  the  dark,  lush  green  of  pine  and  oak  and  the 
tapering  points  of  dark  old  firs.  One  must  be  on 
the  mountain  top  to  see  this  wonderful  display. 
To  look  up  from  below  is  idle,  unless  one  then  gets 
up.  It  is  the  man  with  the  alpenstock  who  sees  the 
most  divine  beauties,  earthly  or  spiritual,  and  never 
he  with  the  muckrake. 

But  the  chestnut  blossoms  are  pendulumic.  They 
slip  away  as  did  the  laurel  wood  nymphs.  They 
slip  away  to  bur  and  frost  and  chestnuts  dropping, 
to  bare  limbs  and  winter  iciness,  while  down  below 
the  earth  the  toiling  roots  rest  in  the  grip  of  Boreas, 
the  frost  maker.  Not  dead.  Oh,  no!  Resting. 
The  moon  will  come  and  the  moon  will  go,  and  one 
day  she  will  wake  them,  and  then  there  will  be 
activity  in  the  underground  workshop.  New  colors 
for  the  decorations  of  a  new  year  will  be  ground, 
and  the  tiny  rootlet  artists  will  spread  them  with 
infinite  skill  on  new  stem,  new  leaf,  new  blossom, 
and  once  more  the  joyful  heart  of  man  will  cry  out 
to  the  Maker  of  all:  "Thou  crownest  the  year  with 
Thy  goodness  and  Thy  paths  drop  fatness." 

Walk  over  the  mountain  where  the  fire  of  the 
incendiary  swept  from  foot  to  brow  three  years  ago. 
It  was  a  wonderful,  terror-giving,  heart-grieving, 
awe-inspiring  sight.  Beautiful,  "  with  verdure  clad," 
at  night.  Desolation  enthroned  on  the  mountain 
summit,  hateful,  appalling,  when  morning  dawned. 


62  THE     BROADER     VISION 

Man  can  ruin,  but  such  ruin  man  cannot  repair. 
But  the  pendulums  of  the  years  swing  steadily. 
Summer  solstice,  winter  solstice,  thrice  repeated; 
August  moon  and  its  sequent  sisters,  year  after  year 
and  year  again  —  and  lo !  a  garment  of  green  has 
overspread  the  desolation.  And  the  tinting  blue 
everywhere  like  the  blue  of  heaven  —  is  that  reflected 
from  the  clouds?  No!  That  is  the  color  of  the 
fruit  of  the  year.  Blueberries,  ripe,  luscious,  invit- 
ing. The  blue  has  come  in  with  the  August  moon, 
and  like  the  white  of  the  radiant  laurel  and  the 
yellow  of  the  graceful  chestnut  bloom,  it  will  follow 
the  moon,  swinging  away  across  the  arc  of  the 
season  into  eternity. 

With  October  will  come  the  glory  of  the  year. 
Time's  swing  is  unerring.  Once  a  twelvemonth 
regularly,  through  all  ages  past,  through  all  ages  to 
come,  it  has  cried,  it  will  cry:  "See  what  I  can  do  in 
death.  I  gave  the  fresh  green  beauty  of  the  spring, 
the  superb  loveliness  of  the  bloom  of  summer,  now 
I  will  give  the  divine  carnival  of  color,  such  as  only 
the  hand  of  God  can  paint."  And  maple  and  ash 
and  oak  and  birch  become  the  canvases  at  which  an 
entranced  humanity  gazes  in  delight.  And  all  the 
while  amid  the  beauty  of  the  dying  glory  of  the  year 
stand  the  dark  pine  and  spruce  and  fir,  unchanged, 
holding  their  wonderful  coloring  year  after  year  the 
same,  prophecy  of  an  endless  life. 


PENDULUMS  63 

For  us  the  pendulum  has  ticked  off  the  melody 
of  the  recurring  years,  has  made  us  hear  the  nota- 
tion of  the  anthem  of  our  earthly  paradise.  Do 
you  remember  what  William  Morris  wrote?  It  is 
the  synthesis  of  our  picture  of  the  year: 

Folk  say  a  wizard  to  a  northern  king 
At  Christmas  time  such  wondrous  things  did  show, 
That  through  one  window  men  beheld  the  spring, 
And  through  another  saw  the  summer  glow, 
And  through  a  third  the  fruited  vines  a-row, 
While  all  unheard,  yet  in  its  wonted  way, 
Piped  the  shrill  wind  of  that  December  day. 


64         THE     BROADER     VISION 


GRACE 

Grace  is  the  conqueror  of  the  world.  Nothing 
is  more  beautiful  in  nature  than  that  which  possesses 
grace.  The  trees  have  it.  We  could  never  weary  of 
watching  the  elms  that  overarch  the  streets  of  the 
New  England  town.  Each  new  puff  of  wind  sways 
them  in  various  ways,  entrancing  because  always 
changing  and  always  lovely.  The  falling  of  a  veil 
of  water  down  the  rocks  of  a  mountain  stream  is 
graceful,  with  a  grace  differing  from  that  of  the 
trees,  for  it  sings  the  sweetest  of  songs.  The  great 
birds  sailing  in  wide  circles  high  over  the  lakes  or 
streams  of  our  Adirondack  lands  are  aerial  weavers 
of  invisible  webs  of  graceful  lines,  and  the  eye  of 
the  beholder,  never  tiring,  sweeps  round  and  round 
with  the  birds.  Deer,  squirrel,  trout  in  pool,  swan 
on  lake,  vie  with  each  other  all  unwittingly  in  their 
appeals  to  the  human  love  of  grace.  A  thousand 
things  about  us  everywhere,  animate  and  inanimate, 
have  the  wondrous  quality.  Blessed  is  the  eye  that 
sees  it;  thrice  blessed  is  the  heart  that,  noting  it, 
thanks  God. 

It  is  almost  singular  that  this  word  which  is  so 
perfectly  descriptive  of  all  things  lovely  in  the  world 
should  also  be  the  word  to  name  the  most  beautiful 


GRACE  65 


manifestation  of  God.  Grace  is  Paul's  great  word 
for  the  richness  and  fullness  which  he  had  found  in 
Christ;  universal  thought  ascribes  it  equally  to  God. 
"Grace  in  God."  "The  grace  of  God."  What  is 
it?  Ah,  what  is  it  not!  It  is  love,  and  peace,  and 
justice,  and  goodness,  and  mercy  overflowing  ever. 
It  is  the  quality  in  God  of  which  we  can  think  and 
rejoice  because  it  is  beautiful.  To  get  an  idea  of  the 
love  of  God,  we  turn  to  ourselves;  thinking  we  know 
what  love  is,  we  make  it  infinite,  and  call  it  the  love 
of  God.  To  get  an  idea  of  divine  justice,  we  have 
to  go  to  our  own  courts;  we  form  ideas  of  what 
perfect  human  justice  is,  and  make  them  infinite, 
calling  that  which  we  create  in  thought  the  justice  of 
God.  But  not  so  with  his  grace.  We  do  not  have 
to  turn  to  ourselves  for  that,  for  it  is  everywhere 
and  in  everything  in  nature.  The  quality  which 
goes  to  make  the  most  graceful  thing  your  eyes  have 
ever  seen  is  in  the  character  of  God.  His  grace  of 
character  is  like  that  of  the  waving  elm,  the  fall- 
ing water,  the  sailing  bird,  the  feeding  deer,  the  per- 
fectly poised  statue,  the  steady-moving  steamer, 
the  wonderful  tones  that  swell  from  great  organs, 
the  hallowed  light  that  fills  with  peace  the  kneel- 
ing worshiper  in  the  cathedral  cloister.  All  these 
things  are  in  the  character  of  God.  God  is  infi- 
nitely beautiful;  beautiful  to  contemplate,  beautiful 
to  worship,  beautiful  to  praise.     The  grace  of  God 


66  THE     BROADER     VISION 

is  upon  us  every  day.  The  beauty  of  the  Lord  our 
God  is  upon  us.  Let  us  worship  him  in  the  grace 
which  makes  him  beautiful  in  his  holiness. 

Let  our  thanks  rise.  Let  our  hearts  sing.  Let 
our  lips  praise.  Let  our  knees  bend.  Let  our 
hands  clasp.  Let  our  voices  hail  him.  Grace  is 
ours.  Beauty  is  ours.  By  grace  are  we  saved. 
By  the  beauty  of  the  character  of  God  are  we 
saved. 


THE     ESSENTIAL     CREED       67 


THE  ESSENTIAL  CREED 

There  is  nothing  easier  than  to  decry  creed. 
There  is  nothing  more  impossible  than  to  live  with- 
out one.  The  very  denial  of  creed  is  the  expression 
of  it.  "I  do  not  believe  that  Jesus  Christ  is  the 
Son  of  God"  is  the  strongest  sort  of  statement  of 
belief  that  the  whole  Christian  position  is  wrong. 
It  is  saying  essentially:  "I  believe  that  Jesus  Christ 
was  a  mistaken  enthusiast  who  sacrificed  a  life  of 
usefulness  to  an  absurd  whim,  or  else  he  was  an 
impostor."  The  denial  of  creed  positive  is  the 
assertion  of  creed  negative. 

Negation  must  end  in  nescience.  A  positive 
philosophy  of  life,  resting  on  the  utterance  of  Simon 
Peter,  "Thou  art  the  Christ,"  is  better  than  denial 
which  with  a  breath  sweeps  away  the  foundations 
of  faith  and  substitutes  nothing  but  vapid  plati- 
tudes about  a  "creedless  love"  and  other  word-com- 
binations that  mean  nothing.  "A  creedless  love." 
Was  it  that  which  sent  Paul  like  a  winged  wheel 
through  the  world?  Was  it  that  which  turned 
Peter  back  to  Rome  to  die,  if  need  be,  for  the  Christ? 
Was  it  that  which  made  John  Calvin  the  strongest 
bulwark  of  human  liberty  that  the  world  has  ever 


68         THE     BROADER     VISION 

known?  Was  it  that  which  made  the  band  of  exiles 
of  1620  moor  their  bark  on  a  wild,  inhospitable 
shore?  The  power  that  has  done  more  than  all 
combined  forces  in  the  universe  to  destroy  the  spirit 
of  clan  among  men  is  the  faith  that,  pure  and 
unhampered,  has  believed  in  Jesus  Christ  as  the 
Saviour  of  the  world,  the  only  equalizer  and  unifier 
of  men. 

Creedless  love,  were  such  a  thing  possible,  would 
make  one  more  cult  to  be  added  to  the  many  of  the 
world,  but  different  from  almost  any  in  the  world  in 
that  it  would  be  spineless.  No  spiritual  osteopath 
could  work  to  cure  the  ills  by  which  such  a  cult  might 
be  vexed,  because  he  would  not  be  able  to  find  a 
backbone  in  the  whole  anatomy  of  such  a  body. 
A  creedless  love  can  produce  nothing  stalwart. 
It  has  never  sent  a  Paton  into  the  islands  of  the 
South  Sea,  nor  a  Grenfell  to  battle  with  the  rigors 
and  terrors  of  Labrador,  nor  a  Chinese  Gordon 
to  give  his  life  for  the  redemption  of  an  alien  people 
from  oppression. 

The  creed  which  counts  is  faith  in  God  as  Father 
of  our  spirits,  through  Jesus  Christ  the  Saviour  of 
our  souls.  Life  needs  escape  from  sin;  the  way  of 
escape  is  faith  in  God.  Saul  found  it  at  Damascus, 
and  the  power  of  it  in  another  at  Paphos  changed 
him  from  Saul  of  Tarsus  into  Paul  of  everywhere. 
It  was  good  for  that  old  Roman  governor  Paulus  of 


THE     ESSENTIAL     CREED       69 

Cyprus  to  believe  because  of  the  sight  of  the  power 
of  God.  It  is  far  better  for  us  to  believe,  because 
of  love,  not,  indeed,  that  which  is  creedless,  but 
that  which  is  for  him  who  died  to  save  us  from 
our  sins. 


70         THE     BROADER     VISION 


LIFE 

Life  is  a  mystery.  Its  springs  are  hidden  in  the 
secret  chambers  of  God.  Along  what  channel  it 
emerges  to  action  knows  no  human  soul.  By  what 
path  it  retreats  into  invisibility  is  equally  unrevealed. 
Its  action  is  always  the  same,  whether  the  means  of 
its  manifestation  be  the  tiniest  infusorial  shell  or  the 
noblest  exhibition  of  manhood.  The  life  principle 
is  one.  Its  negative  we  call  death,  and  of  it  also 
we  know  nothing.  No  pen  has  ever  defined  life  or 
death. 

The  life  is  not  the  soul,  though  the  Greeks  used 
a  single  word  for  both  concepts.  The  body  dies; 
its  life  goes  out.  Soul  and  spirit  live  on  unquench- 
able, not  because  they  are  the  life,  but  because  they 
and  life  are  inseparable.  Why  does  the  body  die? 
Why  does  a  tree  die?  Is  there  a  difference  between 
the  life  of  man  and  that  of  the  tree?  Is  there  a 
physical  life  essentially  other  than  the  spiritual  life? 
Is  animal  life  physical  only?  Has  beast  or  bug  only 
the  same  sort  of  life  as  the  tree?  When  a  man  dies 
shall  he  live  again?  What  dies?  What  goes  when 
death  comes?  No  eye  sees  either.  "Bury  me  if  you 
can  catch  me,"  said  Socrates. 

Pondering  life  we  are  like  children  on  the  shore  of 


LIFE  71 

the  ocean,  asking  the  age-long  question  of  Paul 
Dombey.  No  eye  has  seen  life,  no  ear  heard  its 
voice,  no  hand  touched  its  form.  And  yet,  like 
light,  it  surges  about  us  multitudinously. 

Our  lives  in  the  religious  view  are  twofold,  inner 
and  outer.  The  inner  life  in  reality  makes  the 
outer,  if,  as  Jesus  says,  the  heart  is  the  source  of 
all  actions.  Does  the  outer  life  react?  Does  its 
influence  pass  inward  to  corrupt,  or  to  ennoble,  the 
inner  springs  of  action? 

There  are  only  two  beings  in  the  universe  that 
know  what  any  life  is.  One  is  the  Ego  in  whom  it  is; 
the  other  is  God.  The  tide  of  life  ebbs  and  flows 
every  day.  It  is  an  ocean  whose  shores  have  never 
been  seen.  Lives,  as  we  call  them,  are  its  drops, 
and  some  are  crystal  clear,  and  some  are  muddy, 
and  some  are  sweet,  and  others  brackish,  and  others 
still,  bitter  and  poison-filled;  but  the  whole  vast 
ocean  is  in  God's  all-holding  power. 

The  springs  of  the  inner  life  should  be  pure. 
Only  so  will  the  outer  life  be  true.  But  will  the 
flow  of  the  outer  life  be  always  pure  if  it  flows  from 
a  pure  spring?  Will  not  streams  from  impure  life 
around  it  flow  into  it  and  contaminate?  Only  in 
coloring  its  external  activities.  A  spot  may  drop 
on  the  garment  you  wear,  but  it  will  not  stain  your 
soul. 

How  comes  real  life  to  a  soul?     The  answer  has 


72  THE     BROADER     VISION 

never  been  written.  Into  the  life  of  the  world  comes 
a  human  soul.  Whence?  No  answer.  How?  No 
answer.  So  into  the  life  that  is  eternal  enters  the 
spiritual  being,  we  know  not  whence  nor  how.  From 
a  far  country  comes  the  wanderer.  Dead  yester- 
day, alive  to-day.  Lost  yesterday,  found  to-day.  So 
real  life  begins. 

Can  the  inner  life  fail?  Not  while  it  flows  from 
the  spring  which  is  Christ. 

Will  the  outer  life  belie  it?  Not  while  Jesus 
remains  true  to  his  own  achieved  salvation. 

Is  life  a  vapor?  No.  It  is  the  aroma  of  a  being 
pervaded  with  Christ. 


HENRY     M.     STANLEY  73 


HENRY  M.   STANLEY,  D.C.L. 

The  great  explorer  is  dead.  He  was  only  sixty- 
three  years  old;  but  "whatsoever  a  man  soweth" 
is  true  in  the  life  of  the  explorer.  Henry  M.  Stanley 
sowed  hardship,  exposure,  nights  in  trenches,  days 
on  marches,  labors  herculean  in  the  face  of  the  hot 
breath  of  death-laden  winds  in  tropic  lands;  sowed 
them  over  the  whole  area  of  his  endowment  and 
capacity  before  he  was  thirty-two,  and  the  crop 
ripened  and  was  reaped  in  a  short  life.  But  no 
man  would  have  had  the  work  that  Stanley  did 
left  undone  that  thereby  his  earthly  years  might 
have  been  prolonged.  For  Stanley,  sixty-three 
years  was  a  long,  long  life;  for  life  is  measured 
not  by  years  but  by  its  dynamic  outcome. 

Heart  of  oak,  hand  of  Jove,  eye  of  the  eagle  — 
that  was  Henry  M.  Stanley.  Armed  with  the  three 
characteristics  essential  to  success  —  intrepidity, 
persistence,  watchfulness  —  he  went  into  the  Dark 
Continent,  crossed  it,  laid  it  open  to  the  world,  let 
heaven's  light  in  on  it,  made  bare  its  horrors,  took 
away  many  of  its  terrors,  aroused  England  against 
the  enormity  of  the  slave  trade,  made  possible  the 
foundation  of  the  Congo  Free  State,  did  the  first 


74  THE     BROADER     VISION 

things  toward  making  it  by  and  by  a  garden  of  the 
Lord.     He  was  a  mighty  explorer. 

People  say  he  had  passed  into  obscurity  in  later 
years;  that  he  had  been  left  behind  by  the  rushing 
world.  Perhaps  it  is  true,  but  we  do  not  believe 
he  thought  of  the  fact  often.  He  had  done  his  work. 
To  reach  the  heart  of  the  Dark  Continent  was  his 
goal  and  his  reward.  He  found  David  Livingstone 
in  those  African  recesses,  and  told  to  the  world  the 
story  of  the  Scotch  hero  who  had  borne  the  cross  of 
Christ  from  the  Cape  to  the  Equator.  He  found  and 
brought  out  into  the  sunshine  Emin  Pasha,  the  fear- 
less German  who  was  lost  to  the  news-hunter  of  the 
world.  He  added  discovery  to  discovery,  and  once 
and  again  astonished  the  world.  Must  a  man  keep 
on  forever  discovering  and  astonishing,  because  the 
gods  have  hearkened  once  and  again  to  his  prayer? 

Now  the  end  has  come.  He  has  gone  to  explore, 
we  had  almost  said  a  darker  continent  than  ever 
his  feet  had  trod  before,  so  unknown  to  us  is  the 
land  beyond  the  "great  divide."  The  sable  shadow 
from  the  wing  of  death  clouded  the  approaches; 
the  dark  river  flowed  between  him  and  the  fields 
beyond;  he  went  as  always,  straight  on  toward  the 
end  of  the  path  his  feet  were  set  to  walk.  He  will 
send  no  word  back.  Has  he  found  Livingstone 
again,  and  Emin  Pasha?  We  do  not  know.  Henry 
Morton  Stanley  is  dead. 


WILFRED    T.     GRENFELL         75 


WILFRED  T.   GRENFELL 

A  small  man  with  a  great  soul.  Nights  of  broken 
rest  are  nothing  to  him.  Plunges  on  his  snow-barge 
over  precipices  into  gulfs  of  snow  are  nothing  to 
him.  Crawling  over  ice-bound  ways  on  knees  and 
stomach  for  two  miles  to  reach  a  human  being  in 
need  of  help  is  nothing  to  him.  Small,  swarthy, 
sinewy,  smiling,  is  this  Dr.  Grenfell.  In  such 
lives  God  gives  object  lessons  in  this  newest  age  of 
the  world,  instead  of  moral  precepts  in  a  book. 
"You  have  read  books  for  a  long  time,"  God  seems 
to  say,  "and  have  done  little;  read  now  some  men 
of  mine,  and  do  as  they."  This  is  the  age  of  the 
doers  of  the  Word;  among  them,  the  Labrador 
physician  stands  preeminent. 

Who  is  this  Dr.  Grenfell  who  has  swept  into  the 
religious  life  of  America  like  a  breeze  from  the 
desolate  waste  of  ice-bound  Labrador?  An  English 
physician,  furnished  for  his  profession  by  the  best 
training  London  and  Oxford  can  give.  A  gentleman, 
who  might  have  lived  among  the  elite;  who  might 
have  spent  his  money  in  balls  and  parties  and  suppers 
to  beautiful-featured  women  gathered  out  of  Parisian 
pleasure-haunts;  who  might  have  given  his  genius 
to  parading  before  his  fellows  as  the  best  dressed 


76       THE     BROADER     VISION 

man  in  his  city;  who  might  have  raced  from  Paris 
to  Mentone  in  a  big  auto,  making  both  dust  and 
money  fly;  but  who  instead  heard  once  a  prophet's 
voice  calling  on  Christian  manhood  to  be  something 
in  this  world  worth  while  being,  to  do  something  in 
this  world  worth  while  doing,  and  who  answered: 
"Thy  servant  hears."  So  is  it  that  he  is  a  physician 
practicing  for  no  pay;  a  minister  ministering  for  no 
money;  a  "promoter"  procuring  no  profit  for  self; 
a  skipper  sailing  along  a  snow-bound  shore.  So  it 
is  that  hospitals  have  risen  where  two  decades  ago 
they  were  unknown;  so  it  is  that  "the  Docker"  is 
a  name  to  conjure  with  for  hundreds  of  miles  on 
Labrador.  Great  man,  this  small,  plain  English- 
man, fighting  his  battle  with  death  and  disease  and 
dire  need  in  the  storms  of  an  uncharted,  iceberg- 
barriered  coast,  or  in  fog  and  snow  and  waste  and 
wilderness,  back  from  the  shore  in  the  wild,  bleak 
interior,  where  snow-shoes  and  dog-train  are  his 
only  means  of  travel,  and  where  often  his  only 
companions   are  the  high-up,  silent  stars. 

What  made  all  this?  The  voice  of  D wight  L. 
Moody,  sinking  into  this  man's  heart,  years  ago. 
Truly,  the  prophet  being  dead  yet  speaketh. 


SAMUEL     H.      HADLEY  77 


SAMUEL  H.   HADLEY 

It  is  hard  to  realize  that  he  is  dead.  Why  God 
does  such  things  we  would  not  know  if  we  could. 
To  go  about  telling  God's  reasons  would  be  too  great 
a  responsibility.  Men  die;  that  is  the  end  for  all. 
The  bridge  across  time  is  shorter  for  some  of  us  than 
for  others.  But  that  bridge  is  not  piered  on  earth 
on  one  side  and  left  with  its  other  end  hanging  in 
mid-air.  When  we  slip  off  from  that  other  end  we 
do  not  fall  into  the  river  of  nothingness,  to  be  swept 
to  an  ocean  of  oblivion.  If  we  have  been  Christ's 
here,  we  step  out  and  off  upon  the  eternal  prom- 
ises of  God  as  to  a  home  prepared  for  us  by  the 
Christ  himself.  It  is  thus  that  Hadley  has  gone 
to  God.  He  had  been  a  drunkard;  he  became 
a  Christian.  He  had  been  a  gambler;  he  became  a 
Christian.  He  was  never  higher  critic;  never  an 
apologist  for  worldliness  and  wealth- wearing  wicked- 
ness; he  was  a  Christian.  "Oh,  my  poor  bums!" 
was  the  cry  as  he  passed.  "Who  will  care  for 
them?"  We  wish  we  could  have  been  by  to  answer: 
"God!" 


78  THE     BROADER    VISION 


S.   GROVER  CLEVELAND 

It  has  always  been  difficu1*  to  understand  that 
sentiment  in  Mark  Antony's  speech  over  the  dead 
body  of  Julius  Caesar  which  runs: 

The  evil  that  men  do  lives  after  them; 
The  good  is  oft  interred  with  their  bones. 

That  may  have  been  the  way  in  Rome's  Golden 
Age,  but  it  is  not  so  now.  The  evil  and  the  good 
both  go  on  living  and  working  after  the  doer  is  dead. 
But  as  far  as  memory  goes,  the  world  delights  to 
remember  the  good  that  was  in  or  that  came  out 
of  a  life,  and  it  is  supremely  willing  to  forget  the 
evil.  Pulpit  and  press  say  the  best  things  of  every 
man  for  whom  sounds  the  passing  bell.  So  is  it  of 
that  great  American,  Grover  Cleveland,  one  of  the 
remarkable  personalities  of  the  present  age. 

He  was  a  conspicuous  illustration  of  the  successful 
self-made  man.  Conservative  and  almost  reaction- 
ary in  intellectual  character,  he  became  master  of 
men  by  the  very  elements  which  ordinarily  bar  the 
way  to  power.  Sheriff  of  a  county,  mayor  of  a  city, 
governor  of  a  state,  president  of  the  republic  — 
those  were  the  successive  steps  by  which  he  came 


S.     GROVER     CLEVELAND        79 

to  great  position  and  power.  In  executive  adminis- 
tration no  one  ever  charged  him  with  being  trickster 
or  demagogue,  whiffler  or  vacillator.  His  entire 
conception  of  government  may  have  been  wrong, 
but  he  himself  believed  it  to  be  right,  and  he  gave 
to  it  the  whole  devotion  of  his  soul. 

He  was  never  governed  by  impulse  and  never 
sought  to  dominate  the  branches  of  government 
associated  with  the  executive.  He  represented  that 
period  of  the  republic  which  had  been  dominated 
by  Jefferson,  Madison  and  Monroe.  He  was  an 
old-time  Democrat  who  believed  in  the  supremacy 
of  the  Constitution,  and  who  was  utterly  opposed 
to  centralization.  He  was  born  when  Martin  Van 
Buren  was  President,  and  came  to  manhood  while 
the  sentiment  was  being  slowly  developed  in  the 
nation  which  finally  made  possible  the  triumph  of 
the  idea  that  the  republic  is  a  nation  and  not  a 
federation. 

He  is  the  last  of  our  old  school  of  ex-presidents. 
None  remains.  For  twelve  years  he  has  watched 
the  trend  of  affairs  in  the  nation.  He  has  seen  both 
Republican  and  Democratic  parties  depart  abso- 
lutely from  the  principles  on  which  in  the  middle 
years  of  our  national  life  they  have  for  the  most  part 
rested.  He  has  lived  in  honorable  quiet  in  the  state 
of  his  birth,  respected  by  all,  and  loved  much  by 
those  who  were  nearest  to  him.     He  dies  in  a  time 


80  THE     BROADER     VISION 

of  transition  and  unrest.  The  great  issue  between 
the  idea  for  which  his  life  stood  and  the  new  ideas 
which  are  moving  toward  some  concrete  and  unified 
position  along  socialistic  lines  is  yet  to  be  joined. 
The  great  conservative  forces  of  the  nation  will 
draw  together  by  and  by,  and  when  they  do  they  can 
look  to  no  more  illustrious  example  of  how  to  stand 
for  truth  than  is  shown  by  the  life  of  America's  one 
great  and  absolutely  consistent  representative  of 
conservative  statesmanship,  Grover  Cleveland. 


DEATH     OF     A     POET  81 


SOME  REFLECTIONS  ON  THE  DEATH 
OF  A  POET 

The  death  of  Richard  Watson  Gilder  removed  the 
last  of  the  school  of  poets  to  which  he  belonged. 
There  were  not  many  of  them.  Sidney  Lanier, 
Edward  Rowland  Sill,  and  Mr.  Gilder  were  the 
greatest  American  representatives  of  a  kind  of 
poetry  that  is  charming  to  read,  interesting  because 
of  its  relation  to  the  working  of  the  artistic  mind, 
and  inspiring  because  of  its  subtlety.  No  one  can 
read  the  poems  of  Sill  without  being  intellectually 
quickened.  One  who  comes  from  communion  with 
Lanier  feels  he  has  been  in  the  presence  of  a  cavalier 
of  the  noblest  sort.  Gilder,  in  a  way,  was  both  these. 
He  was  perhaps  not  the  equal  of  either,  and  yet  he 
surely  belongs  to  the  class  of  which  they  were  the 
foremost  examples. 

There  can  be  no  greater  satisfaction  than  to  turn 
from  the  care  and  turmoil  of  this  tumultuous  life 
of  ours  to  a  volume  bearing  the  imprint  of  either  of 
these  men.  They  are  like  the  stone  to  the  dull  knife. 
They  are  like  warmth  to  the  shivering  body.  Some- 
times they  are  like  cold  water  to  a  thirsty  soul. 
But,  like  the  school  that  preceded  them,  this  school 
seems  to  have  had  its  last  graduate,  and  he  now  has 


82  THE     BROADER     VISION 

passed  on  into  the  great  beyond.  The  earlier  day 
had  notable  men:  Whittier,  Longfellow,  Holmes, 
Lowell,  Emerson,  Bryant.  Each  was  great,  and 
each  is  gone.  They  left  none  to  follow  in  their  foot- 
steps, and  a  new  school  arose.  What,  now,  will  be 
the  poetry  of  the  future? 

Every  man,  every  woman  almost,  at  some  time 
imagines  that  his  tongue  has  been  touched  with  the 
coal  taken  from  the  altar  on  which  burns  the  divine 
fire  of  poetic  genius.  But  rhythm  is  not  poetry, 
nor  is  rhyme.  Poetry  is  imagination,  vivid,  keen, 
daring,  dressing  old  thought  in  new  garb,  daring  to 
touch  old  pictures  with  fresh  colors,  and  willing  to 
fail  often  if  once  and  again  it  realizes  its  own  ideal. 

Horace  was  right  in  that  often  quoted  epigram  of 
his,  and  yet  it  is  measurably  true  that  that  which 
makes  great  poetry  is  long  devotion  to  the  best 
ideals,  and  constant  effort  to  realize  its  own  unworded 
dreams.  Here  and  there  is  a  writer  who  will  make 
a  quatrain  that  charms,  or  a  thought-laden  sonnet, 
but  they  are  few.  Sometimes  we  think  the  best 
poetry  of  the  present  day  is  not  in  rhythmic  form  at 
all,  and  certainly  is  unrhymed.  If  the  world  can 
once  come  to  recognize  that  that  is  real  poetry  which 
appeals  at  once  to  the  imagination,  the  judgment, 
and  the  heart,  no  matter  what  may  be  its  form, 
perhaps  we  shall  at  last  be  rid  of  much  of  the  float- 
ing verse  which  is  sometimes    funny,  often  absurd, 


DEATH     OF     A     POET  83 

occasionally  catches  the  passing  fancy,  but  which, 
on  the  whole,  is  a  travesty. 

Who  will  be  the  great  poet  of  the  coming  age? 
The  greatest  poetry  was  produced  in  the  infancy  of 
the  race,  when  men  ruled,  when  life  was  hard  and 
limited,  but  when  vast  ideals,  noble  ideals,  were 
forming  in  the  souls  of  men.  It  is  true,  perhaps,  that 
this  age  is  too  cultured,  that  it  knows  too  much,  that 
its  resources  are  too  great,  that  the  very  things  which 
go  to  make  life  enjoyable  to-day  have  strangled 
poetry.  We  rush  after  the  material,  we  chase  the 
ever  elusive  representative  of  wealth  which  we  call  a 
dollar,  rolling  away  on  its  milled  rim  as  fast  as  it 
can  go  across  the  uplands  and  lowlands  of  life;  while 
we  forget  that  there  are  nobler  things  than  that  for 
which  wealth  stands. 

There  will  be  no  more  great  orators  until  there 
shall  be  a  great  crisis  or  epoch.  There  will  be  great 
investigators  for  all  that  is  still  to  be  made  plain 
about  the  facts  of  life;  but  there  will  be  no  great 
preachers  until  there  be  a  new  vast  sense  of  the 
immanence  of  God.  There  will  be  no  great  poets 
until  the  imagination  be  freed  from  its  swathing 
bands  and  allowed  to  spread  its  wings  and  fly  far 
upward  to  heights  from  which  it  can  behold  the 
broad  vision  of  the  world. 


84         THE     BROADER     VISION 


GOD'S  HERO 

The  last  prose  article  written  by  Richard  S.  Holmes 
Printed  September  5,  1912 

General  William  Booth  —  of  him  it  is  safe  to 
write,  as  was  written  of  Enoch  ages  ago:  "He  walked 
with  God,  and  he  was  not,  for  God  took  him." 
"Dead,"  says  the  rushing  world.  "Not  dead," 
makes  answer  a  vast  host  which  knows  that  this  man 
was  a  spirit  and  that  spirits  never  die.  Greatest 
general  of  the  last  century  —  this  soldier  whose 
weapons  were  "not  carnal,  but  mighty  through  God 
to  the  pulling  down  of  strongholds." 

He  is  the  largest  spiritual  force  in  England  today. 
He  will  live  potent  when  the  king  on  the  throne  has 
been  dead  for  a  century.  Edward  VII  is  to-day  only 
a  name  for  one  who  was  and  is  not.  Victoria  exer- 
cises no  influence  on  the  movements  of  Great  Britain's 
political  life.  Embalmed  by  the  redolent  perfume 
of  her  own  gracious  life,  she  is  yet  only  a  memory. 
But  William  Booth  lives.  God  filled  him  with  a 
divine  fire,  that  sort  of  fire  which  gleams  and  glows 
and  warms,  but  does  not  consume. 

No  founder  of  a  great  religious  movement  has  died, 
not  even  when  the  religions  have  been  pagan. 
Even  the  molders  of  forms  of  religious  monstrosity 


GODSHERO  85 

wield  influence  still.  Religion  is  an  appeal  to  the 
human  heart,  and  the  life  which  can  make  the  life 
of  hundreds  of  thousands  thrill  to  action  at  its  touch 
has  in  it  the  seed  of  deathlessness.  And  when  the 
religious  impulse  is  beyond  all  question  true,  its 
power  for  good  as  years  unfold  is  measureless. 

William  Booth  was  not  the  founder  of  a  new  reli- 
gion, but  his  eye  detected  an  undeveloped  power  in 
the  masses  around  him.  His  hand  struck  a  chord 
in  the  harp  of  his  own  heart,  whose  sound  was 
unmatched  by  any  he  heard  in  British  life,  and  he 
resolved  to  produce  the  tone  which  to  his  ear  was 
music  by  striking  that  unstruck  chord  in  the  human 
life  around  him.  For  that  he  broke  with  his  church; 
for  that  he,  like  his  great  Master,  endured  life's 
cross  and  bore  its  shame;  for  that  he  became  poor, 
abjectly  poor;  for  that  he  sought  the  multitudes  in 
the  lowest  walks  of  life,  and  slowly  found  a  following 
which  he  bound  to  himself  by  indissoluble  bonds. 
Out  of  the  depths  his  soul  cried  out  to  God,  and  from 
the  heights,  far-up  glory  heights,  at  last  he  praised 
him.  Such  men  cannot  die.  John  Fowler  has  never 
died,  nor  Huss,  nor  Luther,  nor  Calvin,  nor  Knox, 
nor  Wesley.  They  cannot.  They  live  because  God 
lives. 

Twenty  thousand  criminals  have  been  reclaimed 
and  restored  to  usefulness  and  honesty  through 
agencies  General  Booth  set  afoot  in  the  forty-seven 


86         THE     BROADER     VISION 

years  since  1865.  Twenty  thousand  wrecked,  world- 
despised  profligate  women  have  been  led  back  from 
the  depths  of  degradation  into  which  they  had  fallen, 
having  slipped  and  gone  headlong  on  the  slimy  paths 
spread  by  the  wickedness  of  men  —  led  back  from 
the  gates  of  hell  into  a  calm,  pure,  trustful  life  in 
Jesus  Christ.  That  is  record  enough.  Where  is 
there  a  man  in  the  great  Methodist  Church  which 
expelled  him  from  its  bounds  who  can  offer  at  the 
gate  of  glory,  as  tale  for  his  life  work,  forty  thousand 
saved  souls? 

The  church  of  the  United  States  can  do  no  better 
thing  than  pause  and  ponder.  The  great  general 
built  no  magnificent  churches.  He  lifted  no  heaven- 
pointing  spires,  raised  no  turreted  battlements  of 
church  walls,  emblazoned  no  magnificent  stained 
glass  windows,  strove  not  to  satisfy  his  soul  by 
saying:  "I  have  builded  the  finest,  most  costly 
churches  in  the  United  Kingdom  and  have  filled 
them  with  millionaires."  On  the  contrary  the  record 
of  his  life  is  as  distinctly  made  as  though  it  had  been 
printed  yesterday  in  the  "  London  Times  " :  "I  have 
shown  the  world  how  great  is  the  power  of  a  combina- 
tion of  real  religion  and  real  charity." 

General  William  Booth  mastered  his  life  problem 
because  he  possessed  three  masterful  qualities  of  life. 
He  knew  he  possessed  them  and  they  never  failed 
him.     These  qualities  were  earnestness,  fidelity  and 


GODSHERO  87 

courage.  Only  the  earnest  man  earns.  Circum- 
stance may  drop  plums  into  one's  lap,  but  they  are 
no  interpretation  of  life.  One  may  be  born  heir  to 
vast  fortune,  but  there  is  no  certainty  that  it  will 
be  of  service  to  him  or  anyone  in  the  world.  Fortune 
dropped  no  plums  for  this  man.  Instead  she  hurled 
stones,  mud,  sticks  and  offal  at  him  in  London 
streets.  He  was  no  money-maker.  All  above  the 
mere  cost  of  living  went  for  the  poor. 

But  measure  his  life  by  his  activities.  Out  on 
the  record  of  its  length  and  breadth  and  height  will 
be  written  these  three  world-conquering  vocables: 
"Earnestness,  fidelity,  courage."  Prescience  was  his 
also.  He  saw  the  value  of  the  "army"  idea.  If 
England's  king  had  an  army,  why  should  not  the 
King  of  kings  have  one?  The  uniform,  the  flag, 
the  discipline,  should  be  suggestive  and  complete. 
The  red  badge  was  not  a  copy  of  the  old  red  coat 
of  the  grenadier,  but  of  the  blood  of  the  cross.  The 
test  to  which  he  put  his  soldiers,  men  and  women, 
was  severe.  He  met  it  first  of  all  himself.  To  beat 
a  drum  in  the  crowded  thoroughfare,  to  rattle  a  tam- 
bourine, to  sing  Salvation  Army  songs,  to  harangue 
a  populace  curious,  hostile,  full  of  ridicule,  was  not 
easy.  He  did  it,  and  was  so  masterful  that  he  made 
others  do  it.  So  the  general  lived,  loved,  wrought, 
wrote,  toiled,  triumphed. 

There  are  those  who  will  say:   "He  was  arbitrary, 


88         THE     BROADER     VISION 

imperious,  dictatorial."  So  he  was,  but  never 
capricious.  He  did  what  the  world  called  unlovely 
things,  but  they  were  the  workings  of  the  stern 
discipline  to  which  the  old  soldier  had  subjected  his 
own  soul.  Essentially  and  fundamentally  great,  he 
did  a  greater  life  work  than  any  man  of  his  time, 
if  work  be  measured  by  its  far-reaching  spiritual 
import.  He  wrought  not  for  time  but  for  eternity. 
He  is  gone,  but  his  work  remains.  He  is  gone, 
but  his  life  has  not.  That  will  go  on  and  on  while 
spiritual  currents  flow.  He  is  gone,  not  because  he 
is  dead,  but  because  he  was  the  latter-day  Enoch. 
"He  walked  with  God,  and  he  was  not  because  God 
had  taken  him." 


INVENTORY     MAKING  89 


INVENTORY  MAKING 

December  thirty-first  —  and  inventory  time  once 
more.  The  busy  world  makes  its  annual  review  of 
the  year's  activities.  Bought  and  sold,  so  much; 
assets,  so  much;  a  book  value  on  the  ledger,  for  or 
against,  so  much.  The  world  will  know  where  it 
stands,  in  a  day  or  two. 

The  firm,  "Soul  and  Company,"  must  also  make 
its  annual  inventory.  Soul  is  the  head  of  the  house; 
Body  and  Spirit  are  the  partners.  Soul  is  the  re- 
sponsible one  on  whom  the  real  burden  of  the  firm 
rests;  Body  is  the  "hewer  of  wood  and  drawer  of 
water";  while  Spirit  is  the  silent  member  who  comes 
at  times  with  suggestions  of  hope  and  sometimes 
in  deep  despair.  Our  clerks  are  many;  Will  and 
Desire  and  Resolve  are  active  and  prominent  among 
them.  Conscience  is  the  bookkeeper's  name,  who 
comes  now  on  this  last  night  of  the  year  to  show  the 
trial  balance. 

Conscience  is  a  good  accountant.  There  is  no 
need  to  check  life's  ledger  through  after  this  faith- 
ful servant,  no  matter  how  tremendous  the  debtor 
total  may  appear.  Here  are  the  entries  of  things 
daily  received  from  the  hand  of  God ;  the  abundance 
received  from  friends;    the  vast  values  from  social 


90         THE     BROADER     VISION 

relations;  the  revenues  from  unknown  and  unheard- 
of  persons  who  by  their  daily  toil  contribute  to  the 
sum  total  of  human  welfare;  the  dividends  from  our 
general  partnership  in  the  business  of  humanity. 
Scanning  the  credit  page,  we  blush;  for  the  credit 
total  is  largely  made  up  of  promises  to  pay.  We 
have  given  back  value  received,  sometimes;  we 
carried  the  load  of  poverty  a  little  way  for  some  one; 
we  dropped  the  balm  of  consolation  into  a  few  hearts; 
we  dried  a  tear  on  a  child's  face;  we  steadied  a 
staggering  man  on  his  heart-broken  way;  we  gave 
a  little  to  the  causes  that  the  Church  said  were 
God's;  but  the  bulk  of  our  credit  is  in  promises  of 
what  we  will  do  by  and  by.  This  fills  us  with  con- 
cern, for  these  things  must  appear  as  liabilities  and 
our  assets  may  not  be  enough  to  make  good. 

One  page  in  the  ledger  is  headed  "Life."     Here 
are  the  entries;    read  them. 


Dr.  To  365  days  steady  continuance $100,000.00" 

Cr.  By  one  dime,  dropped  52  times  in  the  church 

collection  plate 5.20 

By  resolve  to  pay  the  balance  by  a  legacy  to  some 

college 99,994.80" 


We  turn  to  our  bookkeeper.  "That,  Conscience,  is 
what  we'll  do  when  we  die."  Says  Conscience: 
"Suppose  you  have  not  that  much  when  you  die?" 


INVENTORY     MAKING  91 

It  is  a  gruesome  thought;  we  turn  quickly  to 
another  page.     It  is  headed  "Health." 

"Dr.  To  365  days  of  absolute  freedom  from  the  ills 

all  flesh  is  heir  to $100,000.00" 

"  Cr.  By  a  visit  to  the  hospital  to  see  our  clerk,  Con- 
science, whom  we  had  sorely  wounded  by  a 
dishonest  deal  in  stocks;  our  time  valued  at   .  100.00 

By  promise  to  give  all  we  made  by  the  deal  to 
widows  and  orphans,  after  we  make  as  much 
more  honestly   . 99,900.00" 

As  we  read  we  hear  Conscience  speaking,  this  time 
as  though  to  himself:  "Suppose  you  never  make 
it?"  A  cold  chill  runs  down  our  spinal  cord,  and 
we  hurry  on  through  the  ledger's  pages. 

The  record  is  almost  all  the  same.  By  the  book 
showing  of  our  assets  and  liabilities  we  are  bankrupt, 
unless  our  inventory  shows  a  large  value  in  stock 
on  hand.  But  we  face  the  figures  aghast.  We  are 
debtor  to  the  grace  of  God  for  a  sum  we  can  never 
pay;  against  the  debt  stand  promises  we  can  never 
meet;  ruin  remediless  is  surely  not  far  off.  We 
have  received  everything;  we  have  made  of  it  — 
nothing.  Conscience  stands  above  us,  no  longer 
servant  but  master;  we  cower  broken-hearted  in  the 
office  of  the  counting-house  of  Soul  and  Company. 
"Close  the  doors,"  we  cry  at  last;  "let  the  ruin 
come!" 


92         THE     BROADER     VISION 

It  is  not  the  voice  of  Conscience  that  answers, 
but  a  gentler  voice.  "No!"  is  the  word.  "Let  no 
ruin  come!  I  will  pay  the  debt,  if  I  am  but  given 
entrance  into  the  firm  of  Soul  and  Company.  For 
stones  I  will  bring  iron;  for  iron  I  will  bring  bronze; 
for  bronze  I  will  bring  silver;  for  silver,  gold;  for 
gold,  diamonds;  and  thy  poverty  shall  give  place  to 
my  riches  of  righteousness.  I  am  He  that  cometh 
with  dyed  garments  from  Bozrah,  strong  to  bless  and 
mighty  to  save.'* 

As  we  look  up,  half-fearfully,  we  see  standing 
there  the  thorn-crowned  Man  of  Calvary.  We  have 
met  him  oft  before;  long  ago  he  made  us  offers  of 
help.  Then  we  turned  from  him  in  our  strength 
and  pride  of  heart.     But  now! 


RISING     OF     THE     SUN  93 


"BEFORE  THE  RISING  OF  THE  SUN" 

Night:  midnight:  still  night,  over  the  weary 
city.  In  heaven's  deep  and  dark  blue  vault  the 
stars  move  on,  steadily,  silently,  along  their  waveless, 
foamless  way  in  the  vast,  unreachable,  infinite  space 
ocean.  Here  and  there  a  flaring  torch  tells  of  some 
spot  where  memory  of  that  awful  yesterday  keeps 
life  awake  to  the  fact  of  earth's  horrors.  Here  and 
there  hushed  voices  talk  of  the  three  crosses  out  on 
Calvary,  and  of  the  close-sealed  tomb  in  the  garden 
of  Joseph  of  Arimathsea.  Before  that  tomb,  back 
and  forth,  forth  and  back,  paces  each  way  a  Roman 
soldier.  The  two  comrades  who  will  relieve  them 
at  the  next  watch,  sleep.  The  world  sleeps;  Rome 
sleeps;  the  provincial  city  sleeps;  even  hate  sleeps; 
while  within  the  tomb  in  the  garden  the  Nazarene 
peasant  sleeps.  The  high  priest  can  rest  secure. 
The  peril  is  averted.  The  world  that  had  gone 
after  the  "carpenter's  son"  can  return  to  sanity. 
"Woe  unto  you,  scribes  and  Pharisees,  hypocrites," 
will  sound  no  more  when  the  multitudes  walk  in  the 
holy  porches  of  the  temple.  The  Nazarene  sleeps 
the  long  sleep  in  the  garden  without  the  city  wall, 
and  back  and  forth,  forth  and  back,  paces  the 
Roman  watch,  that  never  sleeps. 


94         THE     BROADER     VISION 

The  fourth  watch  comes.  The  cock's  voice, 
clock  for  the  coming  day,  strikes  the  hour  before 
the  dawning.  From  far  below  the  world's  rim  the 
sunlight  begins  to  draw  its  shining  veil  which  will 
outshine  the  stars.  Not  day  yet;  it  is  still  dark. 
A  streak  of  gray  is  in  the  east.  The  weary  soldiers 
note  it,  thinking  the  hour  for  their  relief  is  nigh. 
The  pearl  color  of  nascent  light  spreads  toward 
mid-heaven.  The  pacing  sentinels  wake  suddenly 
to  keen  alertness;  they  feel  earth  rocking  beneath 
their  feet,  trembling,  heaving.  They  turn  upon 
their  beat;  facing  the  tomb  they  see  the  great  stone 
lift  and  sway  and  roll  backward  from  the  door, 
while  light  brighter  than  ten  thousand  suns  floods 
all  the  scene.  Dark  Olivet  with  vine  and  olive  tree 
shows  in  plain  perspective  against  the  curtaining 
east.  The  hill-bound  city  is  visible,  lying  in  its 
sleep,  unconscious  of  the  portents  of  the  morning. 
And  in  the  light  that  streams  from  the  open  tomb 
appears  the  sleeping  peasant,  emerging  effulgent, 
triumphant,  a  spirit  body,  a  bodiless  spirit,  a  flash, 
a  gleam,  a  terror  to  the  soldiers'  half-dazed  souls. 
They  fall  as  dead  men  to  the  ground. 

The  world  sleeps,  but  Jesus  sleeps  no  more.  The 
great  city  sleeps,  but  the  city's  rejected  one  sleeps 
no  more.  Rome  sleeps,  and  its  Caesar;  King  Herod 
sleeps;  but  the  King  of  kings  has  waked  to  immor- 
tality.    The   peasant  of    Nazareth  who  was    laid 


RISING     OF     THE     SUN  95 

in  the  tomb  of  Joseph  of  Arimathaea  to  sleep  the 
long  sleep,  has  come  forth,  Lord  of  life,  Victor  over 
death  and  hell  and  the  grave,  holding  in  his  hands 
the  chains  by  which  captivity  is  led  captive  forever- 
more.  The  Christ  is  risen.  It  is  the  Resurrection 
Day. 


96         THE     BROADER     VISION 


"HOW  SHALL  WE  KEEP  EASTER?" 

Very  early  in  the  morning  yet;  the  darkness  is 
too  great  to  see  the  sepulcher.  Is  the  stone  rolled 
away?  Yea  —  rolled  away!  Angel  messengers  are 
by  the  open  tomb.  "Seek  not  to-day  the  living 
here."  The  outline  of  the  hills  grows  plain.  The 
pencil  rays  of  sunlight  color  the  eastern  sky  to  glory. 
See,  it  is  true.  The  grave  has  lost  its  victory. 
Rejoice,  O  soul!  This  is  the  resurrection  morn. 
Let  us  keep  the  Easter  Day. 

How  shall  we  keep  it?  Bright  lilies  cannot  keep 
it  for  us,  though  they  can  add  their  sweetness  and 
beauty  to  our  joy.  Anthems  and  laudations  ring- 
ing through  nave  and  transept  cannot  keep  it  for  us. 
To  keep  it  as  in  the  presence  of  Christ's  triumphant 
glory  is  a  thing  of  the  individual  heart. 

What  wert  thou,  O  Christ?  How  shall  we  keep 
thine  Easter  Day?  Can  you  hear  the  answer? 
"I  was  a  man.  Keep  Easter  in  memory  of  me,  the 
man  called  Jesus."  Without  Jesus,  the  man,  there 
could  have  been  no  resurrection. 

Yes,  Jesus  was  a  man.  And  what  a  man!  How 
he  walked  the  hills  of  Galilee.  When  sorrow  called, 
how  he  replied.  When  calumny  attacked,  how  he 
endured.     When  death   seized  him,  how  he  died. 


KEEPING     OF     EASTER  97 

He  died  as  man,  unto  sin,  once.  He  lives  in  spite 
of  death,  triumphant  evermore.  Let  us  remember 
the  man  he  was,  as  we  rejoice  to-day.  Let  us 
resolve  to  be  such  men  as  he. 

What  wert  thou,  O  Christ?  "I  was  Christ,  the 
King.  Keep  Easter,  then,  in  memory  of  the  King, 
without  whom  there  would  have  been  no  resurrec- 
tion." 

Think  of  him  as  King.  Not  a  crown-wearer, 
except  as  they  crowned  him  with  thorns.  Not  a 
sword-bearer:  "Put  up  thy  sword,"  he  said  to  the 
over-zealous  one.  Could  the  Prince  of  Peace  be  a 
sword-wielder?  No;  nor  the  tenant  of  an  earthly 
throne.  But  King  of  truth;  King  of  love;  King  to 
whom  the  Father  would  give  a  name  exalted  above 
every  name;  King  for  human  hearts  to  adore  for 
the  salvation  which  sanctifies.  King  of  truth?  Aye, 
King  over  himself.  Had  he  not  said:  "I  am  the 
way,  the  truth,  and  the  life"?  And  into  abounding 
life  he  came  on  Easter  Day:  Jesus  the  Man;  Jesus 
the  King. 

What  art  thou,  O  Christ?  "I  am  the  Lord. 
Keep  Easter,  my  Easter,  in  memory  of  me,  the  Lord 
of  grace  and  glory.  Without  me  there  could  have 
been  no  resurrection." 

The  early  church  caught  the  word.  Apostle, 
evangelist,  the  multitudes  who  accepted  their  gospel 
took  up  the  formula,  "The  Lord  Jesus  Christ."     He 


98  THE     BROADER     VISION 

was  Jesus  the  Man,  Christ  the  anointed  King,  and 
Lord  triumphant  evermore. 

Our  thought  goes  back  to  the  judgment  hall  of 
Pilate.  The  keen  Roman  saw  Jesus  for  what  he 
was  as  a  man.  To  that  manhood  the  Roman  judge 
testified.  "Behold  the  man,"  he  said.  There  was 
a  touch  of  pity  there.  To  his  kingship,  though 
unintentionally,  he  bore  witness.  "Behold  your 
king,"  he  urged.  There  was  a  touch  of  scorn  there. 
That  the  pale-faced,  broken-hearted  victim  of  human 
hate  and  sin  who  stood  before  him  was  the  Lord  of 
life  and  grace  and  glory  never  dawned  on  his  pagan 
soul. 

What  a  Man  —  the  flawless,  spotless,  sinless  One 
of  rolling  ages !  And  what  a  King  —  conqueror  of 
death  and  hell  and  the  grave !  And  what  a  Lord  — 
the  glorious  giver  of  all  good  for  the  perishing  sons 
of  men !  This  is  his  resurrection  day.  Let  us  keep 
it  in  memory  of  Bethlehem  and  Calvary  and  the 
Arimathsean  tomb. 


CHRISTMAS     EVE     REVERY      99 


A  CHRISTMAS  EVE  REVERY 

0  Christ-child  of  the  world's  heart,  Man  for 
the  world's  redemption,  Son  of  God  with  the  power 
of  the  resurrection  filling  thee;  this  is  thy  hour. 
The  heart  longs  for  thee;  the  eyes  wait  for  a  sight 
of  thy  salvation,  bringing  joy  into  life;  the  bells  of 
cathedrals  chime  the  Noel  melody;  the  world  that 
knows  thee  looks  thy  way;  and  as  the  day  draws 
nigh  that  bears  thy  name  we  can  but  think  of  the 
resounding  voice  of  the  angel  host,  and  of  the  hasten- 
ing feet  of  the  astonished  shepherds,  wending  their 
way  toward  the  manger  and  the  Child. 

1  sit  before  the  open  fire  in  my  boyhood's  home. 
The  hour  draws  nigh  the  birth  of  Christ.  The 
world  is  white  outside;  the  logs  burn  clear.  The 
pencils  of  the  flame  paint  pictures  on  the  back- 
ground of  my  thought.  There  are  shepherds  sleep- 
ing; there  are  shepherds  watching;  there  are 
shepherds  going  to  see  this  thing  which  the  Lord 
has  made  known  unto  them.  Oh,  shepherds,  teach 
us  your  lesson!  the  lesson  of  your  wondrous  faith. 
Ye  go  to  see  —  not  to  see  if,  but  to  see.  And  we 
reason  and  doubt  and  argue,  and  sometimes  make 
utter  shipwreck  of  our  faith  against  the  jagged 
headlands  of  a  questioning  brain.     Simple  shepherds ! 


100        THE     BROADER     VISION 

Believing  shepherds!  There  were  none  to  tell  you 
that  no  such  story  could  be  true.  The  Devil  was 
too  much  amazed  that  Christmas  midnight  to  think 
of  stopping  you  as  ye  went  to  Bethlehem  to  see. 
God  had  burst  into  life  that  night;  the  enemy  was 
taken  by  surprise.  He  knew  his  hour  had  come  for 
struggle,  never  to  cease  until  the  day  came  when  he 
should  slay  the  babe  lying  at  peace  in  Bethlehem's 
manger.  But  never  again  could  he  get  God  out  of 
the  world;  never  again  render  hopeless  man's, 
struggle  against  sin;  nevermore  go  unchecked  in 
his  hope- wrecking  assaults  on  human  souls. 

I  see  the  manger  now,  on  the  flame  canvas.  I 
see  the  worshiping  wastrels.  I  see  the  sweet-faced 
mother.  I  see  the  Child  Jesus.  And  can  I  not  see 
also  the  Holy  Spirit,  far  above  the  baby  form?  He 
will  descend  some  day,  dovelike,  and  a  voice  will 
fill  the  ears  of  a  man  at  the  beginning  of  a  great 
ministry  with  the  marvelous  words,  "my  beloved 
Son."  I  see  it,  I  accept  it  all.  I  praise  thee, 
Father  of  Love;  and  I  worship  thee,  O  Christ, 
thou  Son  of  the  everliving  God. 


THE     GREAT     GIFT  101 


THE  GREAT  GIFT 

Gift  of  God!  A  human  soul  passed  through  the 
gates  of  life  out  of  the  vast  unseen  by  the  hand  of 
the  Eternal  Jehovah.  Gift  to  a  poor,  dying  world. 
Gift  for  a  sad,  sinful  world.  Gift  salvation-laden. 
Mighty  load  for  a  child  to  bear.  They  called  his 
name  Jesus. 

Were  other  children  born  that  night  so  long  ago? 
No  angels  sang  for  them  over  any  of  earth's  uplands 
a  divine  anthem.  Not  one  of  them  all  is  remembered 
anywhere  to-day.  But  this  child  of  Bethlehem  has 
never  been  forgotten.  He  will,  he  can  never  be 
forgotten.  The  years,  the  months,  the  days  of  our 
present  life  are  full  of  him.  The  day  we  celebrate 
is  full  of  him.  The  voices  of  millions  around  the 
globe  are  full  of  him  as  they  shout  a  "Merry 
Christmas"  to  their  loved  ones.  For  this  baby  that 
they  named  Jesus  was  the  Christ,  the  Son  of  the 
living  God. 

Does  God  watch  with  eagerness,  think  you,  to 
see  if  on  the  Christmas  Day  any  hearts  will  make 
his  lovely  gift  their  own?  Can  you  see  the  face 
of  the  man  who  wept  as  he  cried:  "O  Jerusalem! 
How  often  I  would  and  ye  would  not!"  That  is 
the  grown-up  face  of  the  baby  of  Bethlehem.     Can 


102        THE     BROADER     VISION 

you  hear  the  voice  that  gave  the  most  gracious 
invitation  of  the  world:  "Come  unto  me  all  ye  that 
labor"?  That  is  the  full  man's  voice  of  the  little 
child  who  lay  in  the  manger  of  Bethlehem,  into  whose 
face  the  wondering  shepherds  gazed. 

What  came  with  Bethlehem's  baby?  Peace! 
The  winged  host  sang  it.  Greatest  song  of  time, 
and  heard  by  humblest  ears:  "Peace  on  earth!"  It 
comes  ringing  down  the  ages,  and  yet,  under  its 
sound,  echoing  from  nation  to  nation,  men  have 
shed  rivers  of  blood  in  war.  "Peace  on  earth!" 
Yes!  peace  came  with  the  Christ-child  and  peace 
was  the  legacy  of  the  Christ-man  when  his  last  hour 
was  upon  him.  "Peace  I  leave  with  you.  My 
peace  I  give  unto  you.  Not  as  the  world  giveth, 
give  I  unto  you.  Let  not  your  heart  be  troubled, 
neither  let  it  be  afraid." 

What  came  with  Bethlehem's  baby?  Light! 
Light  ineffable  at  midnight  on  Judsean  hills. 
Prophecy  was  fulfilled  there.  Hear  Isaiah's  voice, 
exultant:  "Arise!  Shine!  for  thy  light  is  come." 
Truly  on  Israel,  decrepit,  spiritually  senile  Israel, 
the  glory  of  the  Lord  had  risen.  "The  people  that 
walked  in  darkness  have  seen  a  great  light,"  comes 
the  prophet's  voice  out  of  the  past.  Will  the  light 
be  universal  and  enduring?  Will  it  pale  as  other 
lights  have  paled?  Climb  to  the  heights  to-day  and 
scan  the  heavens.     To  the  farthest  limit  of  vision 


THE     GREAT     GIFT  103 

around  the  wide-belting,  far-away  horizon,  the 
effulgence  from  the  Bethlehem  hour  is  shining; 
never  brighter  than  to-day;  never  fuller  of  wonderful 
promise;   never  more  illumining  for  longing  eyes. 

What  came  with  Bethlehem's  baby?  Immor- 
tality !  The  hope  of  immortality  was  but  a  flickering 
torch.  The  cult  which  politically  ruled  in  Christ's 
day  said:  "No  resurrection,  angel  or  spirit."  In  the 
Roman  senate  the  greatest  brain  of  his  day  had 
said,  "Death  is  an  eternal  sleep."  But  all  were 
wrong.  On  to  life's  end  went  the  angel-heralded 
Child.  Hate  hanged  him  on  a  tree.  Love  buried 
him  in  a  tomb.  The  power  of  his  immortality 
burst  the  bands  of  darkness,  and 

"  Life  immortal  the  Lord  did  bring 
From  the  seed  that  fell  in  an  open  tomb." 

Peace,  light,  immortality!  Wonderful  triplet  of 
spiritual  gems  to  set  in  the  crown  which  that  Christ- 
mas night  placed  on  the  brow  of  humanity. 

Salvation,  too,  came  with  the  Bethlehem  baby 
into  the  world.  Is  not  salvation  a  part  of  peace  and 
light  and  immortality?  No;  they  are  parts  of  it. 
It  is  the  circling  coronet  in  which  the  three  gems 
blaze.  Without  salvation  there  can  be  no  peace,  no 
light,  no  immortality. 


LIFE  LYRICS 


A     SPRING     TRIAD  107 

A  SPRING  TRIAD 

April 
No  early  night 

As  in  the  winter  days; 
No  need  of  light. 

Now  fall  the  long  sun  rays; 
Far  through  the  meadows  mark  their  shining  way 
On  winding  river  creeping  toward  the  bay. 

May 
Let  fall  the  seed! 

The  waiting  earth  is  warm. 
The  cattle  feed, 

Nor  fear  the  chilling  storm. 
With  rod  and  reel  the  fisher  beats  the  brook, 
Or  rests  at  noontide  in  the  shaded  nook. 

June 
Soon  o'er  the  fields 

Will  wave  the  flaunting  com. 
The  rich  earth  yields 

Her  store  for  plenty's  horn. 
Strong  hands  and  hearts  with  sturdy  nature  cope, 
Upheld  by  memory  of  rewarded  hope. 


108       THE     BROADER     VISION 


THE  HARBINGER 

Floating,  elusive,  as  on  silent  wing, 

The  first  fresh  flush  of  the  approaching  spring. 

The  ice-bank  sheltered  by  the  shadowing  wall 
Feels  the  warm  touch,  and  answers  to  the  call. 

The  crocus  lifts  its  chalice  to  the  light, 
Waked  from  the  sleep  of  the  long  winter  night. 

A  spirit  subtle  as  of  noiseless  dream, 

Or  formless  phantom,  stirs  sod,  tree,  and  stream. 


GREAT     AND     WIDE     SEA       109 


"THE  GREAT  AND  WIDE  SEA" 

Plash  — 

Swish  —  How  it  rolls ! 

Plash  —  flash  —  in  the  sun  — 

Plash,  swish,  goes  its  sounding  on  and  on. 

Not  a  rumble  as  of  bowls 

On  the  alley, 

As  one  sends  them  with  a  spin, 

With  the  hope  that  one  will  win, 

As  they  strike  the  foremost  pin, 

And  the  marker,  in  his  marking,  marks  a  "spare1 

But  swish,  crish,  plash,  soft  and  low. 

It  would  lull  a  child  to  sleep, 

Make  a  lone  heart  cease  to  weep 

By  its  flow. 


See  the  lace  of  the  foam, 

How  it  crawls! 

From  the  wave  to  the  sand  now  it  falls. 

There!    'Tis  done! 

No  —  still  again  the  watery  walls 

Break  in  flashing  silvery  crests 

And  roll  in  where  the  beach 

Stretches  wide. 

And  they  fill  the  farthest  reach 

As  a  troop  from  the  hills  fills  a  valley. 


110       THE     BROADER     VISION 

Swish,  crish,  plash,  swells  the  tide. 

Yonder  on  their  quests 

On  the  world's  rim  lazy  ride 

Sails,  in  the  sunlight  shining  fair. 

On  the  world's  rim! 

What's  below? 

Is  it  home? 

Who  can  tell? 

When  a  sail  sinks  out  of  sight, 

When  a  day  drops  into  night, 

Does  there  gleam  for  each  a  light 

Anywhere? 


Oh,  the  rolling,  restless  wave, 

Never  ceasing  — 

Surging  in,  and  in,  and  in,  evermore. 

Now  it  flings  its  diamonds  far, 

Answers  now  the  gleaming  star, 

Wheeling  there 

In  the  high  o'erarching  dome. 

Far  below  is  its  deep,  unfathomed  cave, 

Naught  releasing. 


Plash  —  flash  —  like  a  bell 

Hear  it  strike  upon  the  shore. 

'Tis  the  laughter  of  the  waves, 

Silvery  music,  it  may  be, 

Or  anon  the  ruthless  roar 

Of  the  sweeping,  raging,  rolling,  wrecking  sea. 


GREAT     AND     WIDE     SEA       111 

For  the  voice  so  low  to-day 
With  its  plash  and  swish  and  swell, 
May  to-morrow  be  a  knell 
Over  graves. 

Break,  break,  break,  restless  sea! 

Not  thy  dirge,  but  thy  carol,  sing  for  me. 


112       THE     BROADER     VISION 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  WILD 

To  the  autumn  days,  to  the  silvery  lake, 

To  the  shelving  shore  where  the  light  boat  swings, 

To  the  fresh  delight  when  at  morn  we  wake, 

To  a  drink  from  the  brook  out  of  mountain  springs. 

To  the  evening  shade  in  the  mountain  glen, 
To  the  purple  robe  o'er  the  forests  spread, 

To  the  tramp  o'er  the  trail  over  moor  and  fen, 
To  the  rest  at  night  on  the  moss  bank's  bed. 

To  the  vast  woods'  depths,  to  the  leafy  path, 
To  the  crackling  fire  when  the  day  is  done, 

To  the  touch  of  joy  which  nature  hath, 

To  watching  the  track  where  the  deer  must  run. 


THE     BUNGALOW  113 


THE   BUNGALOW 

Hid  in  the  woods,  twin  white  birches  for  sentries, 

A  spring  just  beyond  at  the  foot  of  the  rock. 
The  eye  does  not  see,  but  the  sunlight  finds  entries 
Through  the  fluttering  leaves,  no  noise  in  its  knock. 
And  the  porches  are  cool, 
And  the  drink  from  the  pool 
Is  worth  while. 


Climb  up  the  high  hill  from  the  hot  dusty  street. 
The  bungalow  sits  on  the  gray  mountain  ledge. 
From  the  sentries'  high  tops  come  voices  that  greet, 
Bird  notes  from  the  nest    where  the  brown  thrushes 
fledge. 
They  are  raindrops  of  song, 
Not  too  loud,  not  too  long, 
Well  worth  while. 


Above,  on  the  porch,  stands  the  queen  of  the  glade. 

The  open  door  speaks  of  a  welcome  with  joy. 
From  the  glare  of  the  day  to  dark  mountain  shade 
Pass  in,  to  a  comfort  that  knows  no  alloy. 
For  the  bungalow's  peace, 
Where  life's  worry  will  cease, 
Is  worth  while. 


114       THE     BROADER     VISION 


THE  PORCH 

The  porch  is  wide  and  the  soft  breeze  is  cool; 
A  ripple  laughs  its  way  across  the  pool 
Where  'neath  the  lily  pads  the  goldfish  play, 
And  from  the  fountain  rains  the  silver  spray, 
And  the  tall  pines  touched  by  the  westering  sun 
Cast  shadows  when  the  stress  of  day  is  done. 

And  the  beetle  drones, 
And  the  swallow  flies, 

And  the  dark  pine  moans, 
As  the  daylight  dies. 


The  porch  is  dark,  when  o'er  her  cloistered  halls 
Night  throws  her  veil,  which  like  a  mantle  falls 
On  weary  life  touched  by  the  hand  of  care, 
Or  bowed  by  burden  which  it  needs  must  bear. 
Darkness,  the  path  o'er  which  by  hours  are  drawn 
Night's  chariot  wheels  to  gate  of  breaking  dawn. 

And  the  night  bird  sings, 
And  the  glowworm  gleams, 

And  on  noiseless  wings 
Float  the  far  star  beams. 


POSTHUMOUS  115 


POSTHUMOUS 

The  Censor  read  one  stanza  through; 

He  shook  his  head;  his  lip  he  curled. 
"This  poem?    This?    It  will  not  do; 

I  would  not  print  it  for  the  world. 

"No  master  ever  made  such  verse; 

Its  rhymes  are  poor,  its  thought  is  tame, 
Its  rhythm  bad,  its  diction  worse, 

Its  feet,  its  halting  feet,  are  lame. 

"Who  sent  it?    Has  the  chump  no  sense, 

To  think  he  holds  the  poet's  quill?" 
He  turned  the  leaf.     "From  whom?    From  whence?" 

He  read  the  name,  "E.  Rowland  Sill." 


116       THE     BROADER     VISION 


SWEET  SIXTEEN 
TO  M.D.H. 

I  watched  a  daisy  as  it  raised  its  head 

After  the  winter,  from  its  earthy  bed : 

Its  stem  climbed  ever  upward  toward  the  sky; 

Its  blossom,  like  a  face  with  upturned  eye, 

Searched  the  far  heavens  to  find  the  central  flame, 

The  sun,  from  which,  day's  eye,  it  takes  its  name. 

I've  called  you  "daisy"  in  our  dear  home  spot 
As  years  have  sped;  nor  is  my  prayer  forgot, 
This  birthday  morn,  that  you  like  this  sweet  flower, 
White-petaled,  golden-hearted,  know  no  hour 
Of  separation  from  that  light  divine 
Which  through  the  love  of  Jesus  may  be  thine. 


SAN     FRANCISCO     PEAKS       117 


SAN  FRANCISCO  PEAKS 
FROM  THE  RIM  OF  THE  CANYON 

Twin  mountain  peaks,  snow-crowned; 
The  desert  spreading  far,  embrowned; 
God's  silences  profound. 

Like  sentinels  they  stand, 
Alone,  serene,  and  grand: 
They  guard  the  silent  land. 

Athwart  the  canyon  walls 
Their  silent  shadow  falls. 
Beneath,  the  river  crawls. 

So,  with  the  morn,  the  light, 

Rising  from  gloom  of  night, 

Bursts  on  our  ravished  sight. 

We  kneel  —  we  pray. 


118       THE     BROADER     VISION 


CAMBRONNE 

He  stood  in  the  front  of  the  battle  line, 

Of  the  broken  battle  line. 

His  comrades  lay  on  the  crimson  field, 

On  the  redly  crimsoned  field. 

The  cause  was  lost,  but  he  gave  no  sign 

That  his  heart  could  ever  yield. 

Alone  he  stood;  of  the  "Old  Guard"  last, 
Of  that  staunch  "Old  Guard"  the  last. 
They  cried  him  mercy,  he  cried  back  scorn, 
Yes,  cried  them  back  wrath  and  scorn. 
The  fleeting  moment  of  pity  passed, 
By  hate's  tempest  overborne. 

There  was  rain  of  death;  there  was  leaden  blast, 

The  sting  of  the  leaden  blast. 

Still  stood  he  scornful,  still  gave  no  sign 

Of  yielding,  no  tokening  sign. 

Alone,  when  the  fiery  breath  had  passed, 

The  last  of  the  battle  line. 


THE     DESERTER  119 


THE  DESERTER 

Crack  !    'Twas  the  rifles. 

When  the  smoke  cleared  away, 

There  he  lay, 

Mangled  and  dead. 

And  the  sod?    It  was  red. 

"Shot  for  desertion," 

The  orderly  said. 

They  found  in  his  pocket 

A  letter  and  locket. 

A  child  did  the  writing, 

"To  dear  Daddy,  fighting." 

In  the  locket  the  face  of  a  woman, 

Calm,  strong,  sweetly  human. 

Said  the  letter,  "Ma's  dying; 

I  can't  write,  for  crying." 

He  asked  for  a  furlough  — 

"A  brief  one,  I  pray." 

The  answer  was,  "Nay." 

At  roll  call  next  day 

He  was  gone. 

"  Start  the  chase !    Bring  him  in 

Living  or  dead," 

The  adjutant  said. 


120       THE     BROADER     VISION 

He  was  caught  and  brought  back. 

Brief  report 

Made  the  court. 

"Of  proof  there's  no  lack. 

His  sentence  is  death 

At  sunset  to-day." 

Boom!    'Twas  the  gun  giving  signal. 

When  lifted  its  breath, 

There  he  lay, 

Mangled  and  dead. 

And  the  sod?    It  was  red. 

"Shot  for  desertion," 

The  orderly  said. 


TREE     AND     HEART  121 


TREE  AND  HEART 

A  leafless  tree,  and  brown  fields  spreading  wide; 
Sheep  lying  huddled  in  a  sheltered  nook, 
Where  a  great  pine  casts  shadows  o'er  a  brook, 

And  cattle  scattered  on  the  bare  hillside. 

The  voice  of  Spring  calls  to  the  leafless  tree, 
"Awake,  and  deck  thee  for  the  balmy  days 
When  o'er  the  grass-garbed  fields  the  flocks  will  graze, 

And  nature  will  rejoice,  from  rigors  free." 

The  answer  comes  in  opening  buds  and  flowers, 
In  perfumes  breathed  upon  the  morning  air, 
In  petals  sun-kissed  into  colors  rare, 

And  bird-songs  at  day's  early  dawning  hour. 

So  to  my  heart,  'neath  sorrow  lone  and  lorn, 
Comes  the  great  call  of  Him  who  died  and  rose : 
"Awake,  arise,  forget  what  griefs  oppose; 

Thy  yoke  is  lighter  than  that  I  have  borne." 


122       THE     BROADER     VISION 


PRIMROSE  AND  SPRING 

In  humble  garden  plot  a  primrose  grew. 

It  blossomed;   what  more  could  a  primrose  do? 

An  ice-cold  spring  burst  from  a  wayside  bank; 
A  weary,  thirsting  traveler  stooped  and  drank. 

A  loving  woman  plucked  the  primrose  bloom 
And  bore  it  to  a  soul  submerged  in  gloom. 

The  ice-cold  stream  renewed  the  traveler's  hope; 
He  girt  himself  again  with  life  to  cope. 

The  little  primrose  told  of  earthly  love; 
The  gloom-plunged  soul  lifted  its  eyes  above. 

To  waiting  throng  the  hope-filled  traveler  trod, 
His  message  this:  "Behold  the  Lamb  of  God!" 

Primrose  and  spring;  how  humble,  yet  how  great! 
That  soul  is  wise  that  learns  ere  yet  too  late. 


PERCONTRA  123 


PER  CONTRA 

The  boat  that  drifts  upon  the  land-locked  lake 
Which  peaceful  lies  by  beetling  cliffs  inheld, 
Needs  no  Thor's  hammer  ponderous  chain  to  weld 

To  give  it  mooring  when  the  storm  shall  break. 

But  craft  storm-tossed  on  ocean's  boisterous  wave, 
Battling  the  blast  that  sweeps  the  ravening  main, 
Seeking  the  port  and  seeking  oft  in  vain, 

May  pray  for  Thor  from  ruin's  wreck  to  save. 

The  soul  whose  days  are  passed  afar  from  strife 
In  rustic  quiet,  or  in  forest  glen, 
Needs  not  the  panoply  of  armored  men 

To  ward  the  bolt  by  earth-stress  hurled  at  life. 

But  souls  whose  lot  'gainst  whelming  sin  is  cast, 
Whose  only  portion  is  to  fight  or  die, 
May  fix  on  strength  divine  a  trustful  eye, 

Assured  of  victory  when  the  struggle's  past. 


124       THE     BROADER     VISION 


THE  GUERDON 

When  the  strong  man,  heavily  burdened, 
Succumbs  to  the  breaking  strain; 

When  after  his  strenuous  struggle 
There  is  nothing  left  but  pain; 

What  better  is  he  than  the  weakling 
Who  has  known  nor  loss,  nor  gain? 

Were  the  grave  the  end  of  the  toiling, 
Life  measured  by  strength  alone, 

Had  love  no  part  in  the  problem, 
Were  there  not  a  Christ  athrone, 

There  were  naught  in  living  and  moiling 
That  could  to  such  souls  atone. 

But  the  grave  is  not  goal  but  portal, 
And  the  burdened  strong,  who  fell, 

Is  better  by  all  his  strength  had  done 
Ere  the  sound  of  the  passing  bell, 

Than  the  weaker  soul  without  loss  or  gain, 
To  whom  night  calls  no  "All's  well." 


LOST  125 


LOST 

Where  is  it?    Who  knows? 

'Twas  here  and  'tis  gone. 
The  human  tide  flows 

From  first  break  of  dawn, 
But  no  answer  comes 

To  the  question  we  ask  — 

Too  great  is  the  task. 

Life  gave  us  a  chance; 

We  let  it  slip  past. 
Mourn  not,  but  advance; 

The  future  is  vast. 
Christ's  cry  still  is  loud  — 

"To  the  dead  leave  the  dead.' 

No  more  need  be  said. 


126       THE     BROADER     VISION 


CONTRASTS 

The  star  is  brightest  when  the  moon  has  lost 
The  flooding  radiance  of  its  parent  sun. 

The  heart  is  lightest  when  is  paid  the  cost 
Of  triumph  over  world  allurements  won. 

The  star  is  guidon  for  the  ship  that  braves 

In  lonely  nights  the  battling  of  the  waves. 
The  heart  is  nerved  for  struggle  yet  to  be 
By  every  struggle  crowned  with  victory. 

Contentment  is  a  plant  of  growth  so  slow 
That  expectation  ofttimes  waits  in  vain. 

Ambitions  are  like  tempests  fierce  that  blow 

Strewing  their  path  with  wreck,  with  loss,  with  pain. 

But  for  the  soul  that  trustful  runs  its  race, 

Pain,  wreck,  and  loss  are  messengers  of  grace. 

And  calm  content,  life's  sweetest,  kindliest  flower, 
Will  bloom,  ere  night  brings  in  the  closing  hour. 


TWO     SONGS  127 


TWO  SONGS 

There  is  a  song  no  mortal  tongue  can  sing, 
A  song  whose  notes  are  tuned  to  heaven-struck  string, 
Far  grander  than  the  strains  the  earthborn  hears, 
The  ringing  cadence  of  the  distant  spheres; 
They  speed  o'er  paths  by  human  foot  untrod, 
The  morning  stars,  the  primal  sons  of  God. 

But  oh !  the  song  that  falls  from  lips  of  love, 
Far  sweeter  than  all  hymned  by  choirs  above  — 
The  song  of  souls  that  erst  have  sinned,  but  turned 
With  broken  heart  to  Him  whom  once  they  spurned. 
That  song  is  simple:  "Oh,  remember  me 
When  thou  shalt  come,  dear  Christ  of  Calvary." 


128       THE     BROADER     VISION 


THE  GATE 

The  years  move  slowly  toward  the  distant  goal, 
Which,  reached,  discloses  to  the  longing  soul 

The  guerdon  worth  the  toil  through  day,  through  night, 

The  open  gateway  to  God's  radiant  light. 
Though  strait  the  gate,  and  narrow  be  the  way, 
Enter,  O  soul!    It  leads  to  endless  day. 


COMPENSATION  129 


COMPENSATION 

The  flight  of  the  arrow  is  swift 

When  the  hand  on  the  bow  is  strong; 

The  heaviest  shadow  will  lift 

From  the  heart  that  is  filled  with  song. 

And  the  way  of  peace  is  not  hard  to  find, 

When  Christ  is  the  law  of  the  willing  mind. 

The  path  that  the  swift  arrow  makes 
Not  the  skilfullest  hand  can  trace; 

The  way  that  the  dark  shadow  takes 
Is  marked  not  by  time  nor  by  space. 

But  the  path  of  peace,  by  the  Christ  once  trod, 

Begins  in  the  heart,  and  it  ends  in  God. 


130       THE     BROADER     VISION 


SELF-DEFEAT 

I  shut  my  casement  'gainst  the  murky  night. 
The  morning  dawned.     The  world  was  bathed  in  light. 
So,  bent  to  shield  my  heart  from  pain  and  grief, 
I  lost  the  joy  that  comes  from  pain's  relief. 


TRIUMPH 

Let  not  the  moil  of  time,  nor  stress  of  care 
Make  in  your  heart  the  furrow  of  the  share 

Of  plow  held  by  opposing  hand  of  ill, 

Nor  break  the  path  straight  marked  by  steadfast  will. 
To  stress  of  time  oppose  that  grip  of  soul 
Which  guides  life's  coursers  to  the  destined  goal. 


OBLIVION IMMORTALITY     131 


OBLIVION 

If  life  be  only  the  sequence  of  days, 
Now  labor  and  pain,  now  censure  or  praise, 
Then  speed  to  the  goal  where  death  shall  disclose 
The  end  of  the  struggle,  in  endless  repose. 


IMMORTALITY 

If  life  be  the  rood  that  measures  love's  power 
To  comfort  and  bless,  in  sunshine  or  shower, 
Then  measure  each  step  to  the  Dark  River's  shore, 
Where  death  is  the  portal  to  love  evermore. 


132       THE     BROADER     VISION 


THE  QUEST 

To  rest  in  sleep 

So  calm,  so  deep, 

That  all  earth's  noises  could  not  wake, 

For  me 

Would  that  be  peace? 

From  fouling  moil, 
From  wearing  toil 
And  thirst  that  no  earth  draught  could  slake, 
Set  free, 
Would  that  be  peace? 

Under  the  gleam 
Of  rays  that  stream 
Down  from  far  distant,  rolling  spheres, 
To  walk, 
Would  that  be  peace? 

On  mountain  crest 
With  friend  the  best, 
In  silence  that  can  wake  no  fears, 
To  talk, 
Would  that  be  peace? 


THE     QUEST  133 

Past  toil,  past  sleep, 
Past  cares  that  creep 
Into  the  soul,  comes  gentle  voice  — 
"For  thee 
There  may  be  peace. 

"At  Calv'ry's  cross 
Ends  moil,  ends  loss. 
Look  up,  take  heart,  be  strong,  rejoice. 
For  thee 
There  may  be  peace." 


134       THE     BROADER     VISION 


GEORGE  WILLIAM  KNOX 

Died  April  24,  1912,  in  Korea. 

Under  Korean  skies, 
Land  hermited  so  long  against  the  world, 
Land  last  of  lands  in  which  should  be  unfurled 

Christ's  labarum,  he  dies, 

The  Christian  soldier  dies; 

No  duty  left  undone, 

Life's  hardest  conflict  won. 
"In  hoc  signo"  —  let  him  who  runneth  read  — 
"Vinces."     'Twill  aye  be  true.     'Tis  true  indeed 

For  him  who  peaceful  lies 

Under  Korean  skies. 
Rests  now  the  heart  calm,  trustful,  and  sincere, 
Who  faced  life's  front  unmoved  by  any  fear, 

Quickly  the  roll  call  came; 

He  answered  to  his  name, 

Under  Korean  skies. 
"In  hoc  signo  vinces"  —  so  read  the  youth 
Christ's  labarum.     His  manhood  found  it  truth. 


THE     ROCK     OF     AGES  135 


THE  ROCK  OF  AGES 

I  saw  a  soul,  conscious  of  sin  and  loss, 
Storm-driven  and  racked;   as  ocean  tempests  toss 
The  bits  of  flotsam  strewed  from  wave  to  wave, 
And  none  in  their  tumultuous  tossing  save; 
As  wind  whirls  in  the  chilling  autumn  days 
The  sere  dead  leaves  in  hurrying,  scurrying  ways; 
As  soughing  winds  by  night  through  somber  pines 
Sweep  onward,  while  no  star  in  heaven  shines  — 
So  storm  and  rack  drifted  the  unlit  soul; 
Sin's  yawning  gulf  before,  its  only  goal. 

I  saw  a  Rock  upon  the  shores  of  time, 
Cleft,  riven,  and  rugged;  as  its  crest  sublime 
A  storm-hewn  cross.     Against  it  broke  the  tide 
Of  hell,  and  hate,  and  sin,  and  God  defied. 
Strong  still  it  stood,  unshaken  mid  the  strife 
Of  warring  waves;  sure  refuge  for  the  life 

That,  struggling  out  of  loss  and  wreck,  should  bring 
Thither  its  all,  and  to  that  fastness  cling. 
Great  Rock  of  Ages !  swept  by  surging  roll 
Of  swelling  sin;  great  Headland  for  the  soul! 


136       THE     BROADER     VISION 


MY  PRAYER 

O  Jesus,  let  me  look  to  thee! 

Dark  is  the  way  my  feet  must  trace; 
Turn  thou  thy  look  of  love  on  me, 

And  let  my  sunshine  be  thy  face. 

0  Jesus,  let  me  come  to  thee! 

Poor,  weak,  and  tempted,  prone  to  sin. 
Reach  forth  thine  arms  of  strength  to  me, 

O  Heart  of  Love,  and  fold  me  in. 

0  Jesus,  let  me  walk  with  thee ! 

The  way  is  long  and  I  am  lone; 
Extend  thy  guiding  hand  to  me, 

And  let  thy  footsteps  lead  my  own. 

0  Jesus,  let  me  rest  in  thee! 

Heart,  head,  and  hand  so  weary  grow. 
Thy  yoke  and  burden  give  to  me; 

Their  ease,  their  lightness  let  me  know. 

So,  till  the  struggle  ends  in  rest, 

Tarry  thou  with  me,  Saviour,  Friend; 

So  let  me  prove  that  soul  is  blest 
That,  loving,  loves  thee  to  the  end. 


CALVARY  137 


CALVARY 

Burdened  by  grief  and  tortured  by  sin 

I  strove  to  find  rest. 
Nothing  without  and  nothing  within 

Answered  my  quest. 
Then  spoke  the  voice  of  the  Christ  to  me : 
"Rest  comes  only  from  Calvary." 

Troubled  in  thought  and  captive  to  care 

I  labored  for  peace. 
Naught  I  could  do  and  naught  I  could  dare 

Brought  me  release. 
Then  came  the  voice  of  the  Christ  to  me : 
"Peace  comes  only  from  Calvary." 

Sadly  cast  down,  forsaken  by  hope, 

I  cried  in  despair: 
"God,  give  me  strength  with  trouble  to  cope!" 

This  was  my  prayer. 
Answered  the  voice  of  the  Christ  to  me: 
"Strength  comes  only  from  Calvary." 

Lifting  my  eyes  and  looking,  I  saw 

That  hill  of  despair; 
Cross- topped  it  stood,  and  cursed  by  the  law, 

But  Jesus  hung  there; 
And  his  voice  came  clearer  than  erst  to  me : 
"Rest  —  peace  —  strength  —  come  from  Calvary 


138       THE     BROADER     VISION 


THE  SHRINE 

Love  stopped  by  the  foot  of  a  wayside  shrine, 

And  Hate  passed  by. 
"Kneel'st  not,"  said  Love,  "to  thy  God  and  mine?1 

"Not  I;  not  1." 
Love  knelt  to  pray,  but  she  softly  wept; 
Hate,  fixed  in  purpose,  her  pathway  kept. 

Love  lifted  her  face  to  the  shrine,  and  lo! 

The  Christ  was  there; 
Hate  followed  the  way  she  had  marked  to  go, 

Without  a  prayer. 
The  Christ  touched  Love's  lips  with  a  holy  kiss, 
But  Hate  was  lost  in  her  own  abyss. 

Love  lives  through  her  prayer; 
Hate  dies  from  despair. 


THOU     DRAWEST     ME  139 


THOU  DRAWEST  ME 

0  Tree!  Thou  drawest  me. 

Looking  I  see 

The  Man  of  Sorrows  die. 

Voice  from  the  Judgment  Hall, 

" No  fault  at  all"; 

And  yet  came  Calvary. 

0  Life!  facing  sin's  strife, 
Though  hate  be  rife, 
And  death  draws  surely  near; 
For  souls  in  sin  fast  bound 
Thou  mad'st  life's  round, 
Unmoved  by  hate  or  fear. 

O  Love!  surpassing  thought, 
That  freedom  brought 
For  sinners  such  as  I! 
Can  aught  that  life  can  be 
Return  to  Thee 
More  than  a  tear  or  sigh? 

O  Cross!    Let  me  count  dross, 

Nor  mourn  the  loss 

Of  all  that  I  hold  gain, 

If  by  Thy  blood  I  win 

Freedom  from  sin, 

And  life  washed  from  its  stain. 


140       THE     BROADER     VISION 


ASPIRATION 

O  Lord,  to  thee  with  humble  heart 

I  now  draw  near; 
Conscious  of  self,  of  what  thou  art, 

And  filled  with  fear 
Lest  I,  unworthy  as  I  be 
Even  to  bend  a  reverent  knee, 
Should  fail  in  this  my  prayer  to  thee: 

O  Father,  hear! 

O  Lord,  I  long  for  power  to  bear 

With  patient  soul 
The  bonds,  the  bands,  the  bends  of  care, 

In  part,  in  whole; 
The  fierce  assaults  temptations  make, 
The  passions  that  like*  tempests  break, 
The  lusts  that  life's  foundations  shake, 

Sin's  waves  that  roll. 

O  Lord,  thou  art  my  only  hope; 

To  thee  I  cry; 
Grace  give  to  me,  with  sin  to  cope, 

Self  to  defy; 
To  arm,  to  fight,  to  stand  my  ground, 
Heeding  no  whit  what  ills  abound, 
Counting  naught  lost,  but  all  things  found, 

If  thou  art  by. 


ASPIRATION  141 

So,  Lord,  though  I  am  weak,  not  strong, 

The  victory's  mine. 
So,  though  the  conflict  may  be  long, 

I'll  not  decline 
Sin's  fiercest  battle.     Sin  I'll  brave, 
And  death  defeat,  and  rob  the  grave 
Of  every  sting,  since  thou  canst  save, 

For  thou  art  mine. 


142       THE     BROADER     VISION 


ENOCH 

"He  walked  with  God."  Where?  How?  Was  it  in  ways, 
Think  you,  which  lips  can  speak  and  eyes  can  trace? 

Was  it  as  friend  will  walk  with  friend  through  days 
Storm-bound  or  glowing?    Did  he  see  the  face 

Of  Him  who  hideth  from  the  eyes  of  men, 

Nor  gives  a  faintest  token  to  their  ken? 

"He  walked  with  God."     Dim  figure  of  the  past, 
Far  off  upon  the  background  of  the  world. 

Life  was  a  shadow  toward  hope's  future  cast, 
And  hope  lay  in  the  breaking  dawn  impearled; 

His  deeds  unsung  in  an  unvocal  age, 

Save  one  short  record  on  a  sacred  page. 

"And  he  was  not."     That  is  the  oft-told  tale 
Of  those  whose  lives  pass  as  ships  pass  at  night, 

Silent,  but  swift  answering  the  wind-filled  sail; 

They  seek  their  distant  port,  then  sink  from  sight. 

Did  he  pass  thus  into  the  great  unknown, 

Leaving  no  record,  even  for  his  own? 

"And  he  was  not."     How  sped  the  eager  soul? 

Did  around  him,  as  around  us  now, 
Surge  in,  and  o'er  him  wrecking  waters  roll? 


ENOCH  143 


Or  stood  he,  pilot,  at  his  own  life's  prow 
To  mark  the  leeway  and  to  keep  the  course, 
'Gainst  whelming  billows  and  fierce  ocean's  force? 

Not  so.     "God  took  him."     Such  the  simple  screed. 

He  walked  new  paths  with  step  strong,  full,  and  free, 
Rich  guerdon  of  untasted  death  his  meed, 

And  life  that  had  been,  lost  in  life  to  be. 
O'er  ways  unseen  by  mortal  eyes  he  trod 
With  step  unfaltering,  for  "he  walked  with  God." 


HOLIDAY  AND  ANNIVERSARY 
POEMS 


BIRD     AND     THE     MORN         147 


THE  BIRD  AND  THE  MORN 

A  fluttering  bird  beat  at  my  window  pane. 
Drear  night;  wild  winds;  cold,  fiercely  driving  rain. 
The  bird  swept  on,  lost  in  the  night  again. 

One  stood  and  knocked;    knocked  at  my  heart's  closed 

door. 
Passion's  rude  blast  beat  fierce,  as  on  the  shore 
Wild  breakers  beat  when  the  mad  tempests  roar. 

Spent  was  the  storm,  yet  still  that  form  was  there; 
Not  vanished  like  the  bird  that  could  not  bear 
The  swift,  cold  rushing  of  night's  hostile  air. 

Bright  morning  broke  with  clear  auroral  ray. 

Who  art  thou?    Why  thus  at  my  heart's  door  stay? 

I  am  the  Christ.     This  is  the  Easter  Day. 


148       THE     BROADER     VISION 


ON  EASTER  MORNING 

The  Christ  who  hung  upon  Calvary's  cross 

Hung  there  for  me. 
The  Christ  who  suffered  of  all  the  loss, 

Suffered  for  me. 
But  sorrow  and  death  to  him  were  naught; 
The  loss  and  the  cross  salvation  brought 
To  the  wandering  sheep  by  the  Shepherd  sought 

That  is  to  me. 

The  form  that  rested  in  Joseph's  tomb 

Lay  there  for  me. 
The  soul  that  tasted  the  awful  doom 

Drank  deep  for  me. 
But  silence  and  sleep  to  him  were  naught; 
For  the  doom  and  the  tomb  salvation  brought 
To  the  sin-slain  soul  that  its  Lover  sought  — 

That  is  to  me. 

The  King  who  bore  the  twin  nights'  delay 

Endured  for  me. 
The  King  who  rose  with  the  breaking  day 

Arose  for  me. 
For  the  clutch  of  the  grave  to  him  was  naught; 
The  day  and  delay  salvation  brought 
To  a  hope-lorn  sinner  by  Saviour  sought  — 

That  is  to  me. 


AN     EASTER     HYMN  149 


AN  EASTER  HYMN 

O  Thou  enthroned  beyond  the  radiant  spheres, 
Strong  Son  of  Man,  victorious  o'er  the  grave, 
Conqueror  of  death,  and  mighty  thus  to  save, 
Ancient  of  Days,  First  of  Eternal  Years: 
To  thee  we  raise 
Our  hymn  of  praise, 
This  Easter  morn,  this  Easter  morn. 

Delivered  for  our  sins  to  Satan's  power, 

Held  close  by  death  beneath  the  fast-sealed  stone, 
Death  linked  to  hell  proclaimed  thee  as  its  own, 
And  sung  the  victory  in  that  awful  hour. 
Sad  hour  of  pain, 
When  grief's  refrain 
Sounded  hope's  knell,  her  long  deathknell. 

But  short  the  triumph;  dawned  the  morn  at  last, 
Morn  that  should  banish  pain  and  grief  and  fear, 
Morn  that  should  send  to  every  coming  year 
The  note  of  joy  for  death's  long  power  passed. 
Glad  note  of  praise 
For  hearts  to  raise 
That  Easter  morn,  that  Easter  morn. 

"Not  here,  but  risen!"  was  the  angel's  word. 
Go,  tell  the  story,  that  the  world  may  hear! 
Life  conquers  death,  sorrow  gives  place  to  cheer, 


150       THE     BROADER     VISION 

And  glad  new  hope  in  human  hearts  is  stirred. 

Banished  death's  pain ! 

That  new  refrain 
Is  death's  deathknell,  death's  long  deathknell. 

O  Thou  enthroned  beyond  the  radiant  spheres, 
Our  eyes,  our  hearts,  our  voices  we  would  raise, 
Our  souls  outpour  in  one  glad  song  of  praise. 
Saviour  from  sin,  Deliverer  from  our  fears, 
To  thee  we  raise 
Our  hymn  of  praise 
This  Easter  morn,  this  Easter  morn. 


ANOLDSTORY  151 


AN  OLD  STORY 
Which  Cannot  Be  Told  Too  Often  to  a  Doubting  Age 

'Tis  evening  time.     The  shadows  gather  fast. 

From  Calvary's  cross  to  Joseph's  tomb  has  passed 
A  sorrowing  group,  bearing  to  final  rest 
The  broken  form  of  One  they  had  loved  best. 

Grief,  pain,  dismay!    Hope  from  each  heart  has  fled; 

He  whom  they  thought  the  Christ,  the  King,  is  dead, 

And  Joseph's  steps  are  slow,  and  bowed  his  head, 
Joseph  of  Arimathsea. 

Breaks  the  third  morn,  and  ere  the  dawn  of  day, 
Out  from  the  city  and  along  the  way 

Tombward,  there  goes  in  the  gray  morning's  calm 
A  sad-faced  woman,  bearing  spice  and  balm 
For  bis  anointing.     With  heart  sorely  riven 
She  weeps;  within  her,  faith  and  doubt  have  striven, 
Ev'n  though  she  knows  her  many  sins  forgiven, 
Mary,  the  Magdalene. 

Full  day  has  dawned.     Now  at  this  Mary's  call, 
Remembering  not  the  night,  the  high  priest's  hall, 
The  base  denial,  Simon  Peter  goes 
To  seek  the  Lord,  to  rescue  from  its  foes 
The  stolen  form,     Moved  only  by  the  prayer, 


152       THE     BROADER     VISION 

"My  Lord  is  gone,  and  oh,  I  know  not  where 
He  lies!"  hastes  Simon,  banishing  despair, 
Simon  the  fisherman. 

But  vain  the  search  for  him  in  rocky  grave. 
What  grip  of  death  could  hold  him,  strong  to  save? 
To  death  was  left  when  broke  the  third  day's  dawn 
An  empty  tomb;   the  Lord  of  Life  was  gone. 
Yet  sad  in  heart,  though  all  the  world  lay  fair, 
Stands  Mary  weeping,  crying  "Where,  oh,  where?" 
A  voice!    She  looks.     Lo,  he  is  standing  there, 
Jesus,  her  risen  Lord. 

Oh,  blessed  moment!    Night  for  her  has  flown; 
For  her  Light  breaks,  and  not  for  her  alone. 
Before  his  face,  like  her,  we,  too,  may  fall 
To  hail  him  Master,  hail  him  Lord  of  all. 
For  still  for  us,  as  in  the  ages  past, 
There  dawns,  when  end  the  days  of  Lenten  fast, 
An  Easter  morning,  glorious,  unsurpassed, 
Through  Christ  the  Lord. 


HAIL,     EASTER     MORN!       153 


HAIL,  EASTER  MORN! 

Hail,  Easter  Morn!    Sing  every  voice  with  joy! 

Christ  rose  triumphant,  and  we,  too,  shall  rise. 
Great  song  of  ages!  never  will  it  cloy; 

We  send  it  echoing  to  the  vaulted  skies. 
"Praise  be  to  God!  burst  is  the  rocky  prison! 
Praise  be  to  God!    Jesus  the  Lord  is  risen." 

Hail,  Easter  Morn!    Thine  was  a  glorious  dawn; 

Thy  luster  shone  to  gild  all  future  years. 
Christ  dead  was  sun  of  hope  from  men  withdrawn; 

Christ  risen  was  light  reluming  human  fears. 
Hearts  sad  erstwhile  took  up  the  great  refrain, 
He  lives  who  once  was  dead!   He  lives  again. 

Great  day  of  promise,  Easter  of  the  soul! 

Faith  raised  her  tear-dimmed  eyes  when  Christ  arose. 
Hope  saw  beyond  that  open  tomb  her  goal : 

Love,  comforted,  forgot  her  day  of  woes. 
Grim  shadows  lifted  from  life's  forward  path, 
And  glory  was  the  soul's  rich  aftermath. 

Hail,  Easter!    Hail!    No  other  day  of  time 

So  great,  save  that  on  which  the  Christ  was  born. 

On  this  glad  day,  in  every  race  and  clime, 
Hearts  full  of  love  sing  the  incoming  morn; 

Sing  it,  in  ringing  notes  of  glad  accord; 

Sing  it,  in  hallelujahs  to  the  Lord. 


154       THE     BROADER     VISION 


WHITHER  AWAY? 

Whither  away  in  the  early  morn, 

Mary? 
Why  sad  of  face  and  of  heart  forlorn, 

Mary? 
Why  past  the  hill  where  three  crosses  stand, 
With  balm  and  spicery  in  thy  hand, 

Mary? 

"To  the  garden  where  I  saw  them  lay 

In  the  gloom  my  Lord. 
But  who  will  roll  me  the  stone  away 

From  the  tomb  of  my  Lord?" 

Already  is  lifting  the  long  night's  gloom, 

Mary. 
See,  through  the  shadows  an  open  tomb, 

Mary. 
For  the  heavy  stone  is  rolled  away; 
Here  breaks  the  dawn  of  the  world's  new  day, 

Mary! 

A  cry  of  grief  rends  the  morning  air: 

"Borne  away,  my  Lord! 
And  I  know  not,  oh,  I  know  not  where 

They  will  lay  my  Lord." 


WHITHER     AWAY?  155 

On  the  garden  path  why  weepest  thou, 

Woman? 
At  the  open  tomb  whom  seekest  thou, 

Woman? 
See,  by  the  flooding  light  of  dawn, 
The  tomb  is  empty,  the  watch  is  gone, 

Woman. 

From  a  broken  heart  her  sad  reply: 

"Sir,  where  is  my  Lord?" 
"Mary!"    She  lifts  her  wondering  eye  — 

"Rabboni!    My  Lord!" 


156       THE     BROADER     VISION 


DECORATION  DAY 

To  our  comrades  of  the  sixties  in  the  blue! 
To  our  foes  below  the  rivers  in  the  gray! 
You  who  heard  the  wild  drum's  rattle, 
The  shrill  bugle's  call  to  battle, 
And  to  drum-call  and  to  bugle-call  were  true. 
On  the  lowlands  some  are  sleeping  far  away, 
Sleeping  silent  in  the  lowlands  far  away. 

Oh,  'twas  come,  come,  come,  the  call  we  heard  I 
And  the  drum,  drum,  drum  our  pulses  stirred : 

And  the  martial  heart  was  strong; 

Though  the  battle  front  was  long, 
From  the  shock  of  war  no  comrade  was  deterred. 

Those  were  days  when  the  breath  of  death  was  strong; 

When  it  kissed  men  on  their  foreheads,  and  they  fell : 

When  the  pale  horse  and  his  rider 

Were  for  shot  and  shell  the  guider, 

As  he  rode  down  the  battle  line  so  long. 

And  we  knew  the  call  to  charge  was  the  knell, 

For  the  blue  and  the  gray,  the  sure  deathknell. 

Oh,  the  flag !  how  we  followed  where  it  led ! 
How  we  strove  to  save  it  in  the  battle  hour! 
Stained  and  faded,  torn  and  tattered, 
Though  the  battle  front  was  shattered, 


DECORATION     DAY  157 

And  our  comrades  lay  in  heaps  around  it,  dead. 
Not  a  soldier's  heart  that  saw  the  flag  would  cower; 
'Neath  Old  Glory,  red  and  gory,  could  not  cower. 

Dear  old  comrades  of  the  sixties,  here's  to  you! 

Dear  old  foemen  of  the  Southland,  here's  a  hand! 

Reverently  we  strew  our  flowers 

On  your  soldiers'  graves  and  ours, 

On  the  graves  of  all  who  wore  or  gray  or  blue. 

Gray  and  blue,  heart  to  heart  we'll  ever  stand; 

Blue  and  gray,  living,  loving,  ever  stand. 

Oh,  'twas  come,  come,  come,  the  call  we  heard! 
And  the  drum,  drum,  drum  our  pulses  stirred : 

Every  martial  heart  was  strong, 

And  though  battle  front  was  long, 
From  the  shock  of  war  no  soldier  was  deterred. 


158       THE     BROADER     VISION 


THE  SONG  OF  LIBERTY 

"  In  their  ragged  regimentals 
Stood  the  Old  Continentals." 

Toward  Concord  through  the  midnight  hours 
The  rider  spurred  his  sinewy  roan. 

"Up!    forth!    To  arms!    the  battle  lowers!" 
So  went  the  cry,  by  night  wind  blown. 

Toward  Concord  marched  at  break  of  day 
The  serried  line  from  foreign  shore. 

At  night,  beneath  the  stars  men  lay, 

Fast  gripped  by  death,  to  march  no  more. 

The  shot  was  fired;  the  die  was  cast; 

Louder  than  sound  of  minute-gun, 
Or  roll  of  drum,  or  bugle  blast, 

Called  freedom's  voice  from  Lexington. 

The  die  was  cast.     Through  all  the  land 
The  beacons  burned,  the  couriers  sped; 

Eye  flashed  to  eye,  hand  clasped  with  hand 
For  Concord  bridge  and  patriot  dead. 

From  glen,  from  farm,  from  mountain,  men 
Sunburned,  alert,  and  strong  of  will, 

Marched  at  the  call  of  country,  when 
The  war-storm  swept  o'er  Bunker  Hill. 


THE     SONG     OF     LIBERTY      159 

They  heard  the  cracking  rifle's  call; 

They  heard  the  cry  when  Warren  fell; 
Took  down  the  musket  from  the  wall, 

And  said,  "To  die  like  him  is  well." 

Ticonderoga  felt  their  tread 

And  Bennington  their  valor  knew; 
By  Schuylkill's  stream  they  laid  their  dead 

O'ershaded  by  the  spreading  yew. 

The  winter  night,  the  icy  stream, 

The  barges  filled  with  patriot  souls, 
The  still,  stern  march  at  morning's  gleam, 

Then  victory's  wave  through  Trenton  rolls. 

Oh,  Valley  Forge!   thy  freezing  breath 
Blew  fierce  and  chill  beneath  thy  trees, 

Where  ragged  soldiers,  stalked  by  death, 
In  reverence  prayed  on  bended  knees. 

How  fair  Wyoming  lay  at  night; 

O'er  her  green  glade  the  war-whoop  broke; 
Charred  embers  at  the  morning  light 

Told  where  had  fallen  the  fearful  stroke. 

The  slow  years  dragged  their  length  away. 

Men  faltered  not,  though  thousands  died. 
Men  faltered  not,  but  toward  the  day 

Pressed,  flinching  not,  with  God  as  guide. 


160       THE     BROADER     VISION 

Day  dawned  at  last  by  Yorktown's  shore. 

Great  freedom's  sun  resplendent  rose. 
Its  light  on  earth  to  pale  no  more, 

Till  life  and  time  alike  shall  close. 

Great  men,  with  greater  purpose  filled! 

They  fought  for  freedom,  and  they  won. 
The  years  were  slow,  but  God  had  willed 

The  issue,  and  His  will  was  done. 

These  were  our  sires.     Their  sons  are  we. 

We  tread  with  reverence  where  they  trod. 
Their  motto,  "God  hath  made  men  free"; 

Their  guerdon,  Country,  Home,  and  God. 


OLD-TIME     MEMORIES        161 


OLD-TIME  MEMORIES 

The  harvests  are  gathered,  the  fields  are  bare, 
The  chill  of  the  autumn  is  on  the  air. 

The  brook  in  the  meadow,  still  fringed  with  sedge, 
Feels  the  touch  of  the  ice-king  at  its  edge. 

Beyond  the  river  the  mountains  rise; 
Snow-silvered,  they  shine  as  the  daylight  dies. 

The  northwind  sweeps  where  the  reapers  sang, 
And  the  earth  is  hard  where  the  fresh  grain  sprang. 

The  toilers  are  gone  with  their  laugh  and  jest; 
The  greensward  sleeps,  and  the  forests  rest. 

One  robin  sings  late  on  the  leaf -bare  bough, 
The  last  of  his  kind;  'twill  be  winter  now. 

Cold,  dreary  and  dark  is  the  world  to-night, 
But  the  home  within  is  aglow  with  light. 

The  table  is  loaded  with  homely  cheer, 

The  fruit  of  the  goodness  that  crowns  the  year. 


162       THE     BROADER     VISION 

Praise  God,  'tis  from  him  that  all  blessings  flow! 
Give  thanks,  all  his  creatures  in  earth  below. 

Where  the  fire  leaps  high,  by  the  hearth  they  kneel, 
To  voice  the  thanksgiving  glad  hearts  should  feel. 


THANKSGIVING     HYMN        163 


A  THANKSGIVING  HYMN 

God  of  our  fathers,  who  didst  lead 
By  ways  unknown,  o'er  trackless  sea, 

Those  souls  of  faith  and  strenuous  deed, 
With  grateful  hearts  we  turn  to  thee. 

On  rocky  shore,  'neath  wintry  sky, 

Where  mantling  snow  the  earth  o'erlaid, 

And  ocean  tossed  fierce  breakers  high, 

They  reverent  knelt,  they  grateful  prayed. 

They  thanked  thee  for  the  guiding  grace 
That  gave  New  England  for  the  Old; 

Then  turned  to  front  with  dauntless  face 
What  terrors  life  or  death  might  hold. 

They  recked  not  sound  of  surging  seas, 
Nor  feared  the  wind-swept  forest's  roar; 

High  o'er  the  voice  of  howling  breeze 

Their  steadfast  hearts  thanksgivings  pour. 

And  we,  their  children,  sing  to-day 

The  strong  "Te  Deum"  which  they  sang; 

With  single  heart  the  prayer  we  pray 
Which  through  their  forest  vistas  rang. 


164       THE     BROADER     VISION 

We  praise  thee  for  the  rounded  year, 
For  home,  for  joy,  for  rest,  for  peace, 

For  bursting  barns,  for  banished  fear, 
And  love  that  lasts  without  surcease. 

So  thanking  thee,  great  God  of  grace, 
We  raise  our  prayer,  our  praise  we  sing; 

Our  sires  in  thee  found  dwellingplace; 
Let  us  find  rest  beneath  thy  wing. 


CHRISTMAS     MORN  165 


CHRISTMAS  MORN 

Sweetly  sang  the  choirs  of  angels 

When  our  Christ  was  born : 
Holy  anthems,  glad  evangels, 

Ushered  in  the  morn. 
Through  the  wintry  night  air  pealing, 
Swelled  the  song  God's  love  revealing  — 
"Peace  on  earth,  good  will  to  men." 

Down  the  intervening  ages 

Rings  the  holy  word; 
Infant  lips  and  lips  of  sages 

Join  to  praise  the  Lord. 
And,  while  Christmas  bells  are  ringing, 
Thousand  hearts  their  joys  are  singing, 
"Peace  on  earth,  good  will  to  men." 

Hear,  0  heart,  the  simple  story; 

On  this  Christmas  morn, 
Jesus  Christ,  the  Lord  of  Glory, 

Unto  you  is  born. 
And,  while  earth  and  heaven  rejoices, 
Join,  O  heart,  those  happy  voices, 
"Peace  on  earth,  good  will  to  men." 


166       THE     BROADER     VISION 


CHRISTMAS  EVE 

The  star  in  the  East  is  bright  to-night, 

As  in  ages  long  ago, 
When  out  on  the  hills  came  radiant  light, 
And  the  glory  song  swept  down  the  night, 

To  the  watching  hearts  below, 
That  under  the  stars  lone  vigil  kept, 
While  the  distant  town  in  quiet  slept. 

The  peace  on  the  earth  is  great  to-night, 

For  the  Child  of  the  star  is  king, 
And  the  hope  of  the  world  is  rising  bright 
That  the  end  of  struggle  and  long  fierce  fight 

The  new  day's  dawn  will  bring, 
When  all  hearts  shall  rest  in  the  dream  of  peace, 
And  sorrow  and  pain  and  tears  shall  cease. 


FOR     CHRISTMAS  167 


FOR  CHRISTMAS 

I  went  to  the  forest,  and  asked  of  the  trees, 
As  bowing  and  swaying  they  bent  to  the  breeze, 
"Now  tell  me,  my  brothers,  pray  tell,  if  you  please, 

Just  what  can  you  do  for  Christmas?" 
And  straightway  they  answered,  the  dark,  lofty  trees, 
As  spicy  and  fragrant  they  waved  in  the  breeze, 
"We're  trying  our  best  to  grow  tall,  if  you  please; 

We're  trying  to  grow  for  Christmas." 

I  passed  by  the  draper's,  and  saw  in  a  box 

Great  masses  of  stockings,  both  plain  and  with  clocks, 

And  eager  I  asked  them,  "You  neat  little  socks, 

Just  what  will  you  do  for  Christmas?" 
And  straightway  they  answered  from  out  of  their  box, 
Those  stout-footed  stockings,  both  plain  and  with  clocks, 
"We'll  try  to  fulfill  the  first  duty  of  socks, 

We'll  try  to  keep  whole  for  Christmas." 

I  entered  the  toy-shop,  and  said  to  the  toys, 
Such  wonderful  treasures  for  girls  and  for  boys, 
"You  dear,  pretty  playthings,  you  holiday  joys, 

Pray  what  will  you  do  for  Christmas?" 
And  straightway  they  answered,  those  shining  new  toys, 
Those  marvelous  presents  for  girls  and  for  boys, 
"To  play  with  a  child  is  the  chief  of  our  joys; 

We'll  play  with  them  all  on  Christmas." 


168       THE     BROADER     VISION 

I  climbed  to  the  belfry,  and  questioned  the  bell, 
All  murmuring  with  sound  like  the  heart  of  a  shell, 
"Now  tell  me,  my  silver  tongue,  truthfully  tell, 

What  song  you'll  ring  out  on  Christmas?" 
And  straightway  the  resonant  voice  of  the  bell, 
All  vibrant  with  sound  like  a  tropical  shell, 
Replied,  "The  glad  message  I'll  joyfully  tell, 

'Good  Tidings'  I'll  ring  on  Christmas." 

I  wandered  to  cloudland,  and  asked  of  the  snow, 
As  dancing  and  whirling  it  sped  to  and  fro, 
"Now  tell  me,  fair  snowflakes,  I  long  so  to  know, 

Just  what  are  your  plans  for  Christmas?" 
And  straightway  they  answered,  the  soft  flakes  of  snow, 
As  circling  and  floating  they  whirled  to  and  fro, 
"We  think  we  should  do  the  best  thing,  do  you  know, 

If  we  fell  thick  and  white  for  Christmas." 

I  asked  of  the  tapers,  the  stars,  and  each  light 
That  blooms  in  the  heavenly  garden  of  night, 
"Now  tell  me,  ye  shining  ones,  lovely  and  bright, 

What  best  can  you  do  for  Christmas?" 
And  straightway  they  answered,  star,  taper  and  light, 
All  blooming  and  fair  in  the  garden  of  night, 
"O'er  land  and  o'er  ocean  we'll  beam  clear  and  bright, 

We'll  shine  out  our  best  for  Christmas." 

So  I  found  that  all  things  in  the  sky  and  the  earth, 
Trees,  stockings  and  toys,  with  full  sense  of  their  worth, 
Stars,  bells  and  the  snow,  for  the  sweet  Christ-child's  birth, 
Would  each  do  their  best  for  Christmas. 


FOR     CHRISTMAS  169 

For  snow,  stars  and  bells,  with  all  things  on  the  earth, 
Know  well  that  the  measure  of  what  they  are  worth, 
When  comes  the  glad  hour  of  the  dear  Christ-child's  birth, 
Is  the  good  things  they  do  on  Christmas. 

So  I  come  to  this  band  of  glad  boys  and  sweet  girls, 
With  cheeks  red  as  roses,  and  teeth  white  as  pearls, 
And  ask  you,  bright  eyes,  and  you,  soft  tossing  curls, 

"Just  what  will  you  do  for  Christmas?" 
Let  this  be  your  answer,  brave  boys  and  fair  girls, 
While  the  roses  grow  redder,  and  whiter  the  pearls, 
"By  our  sparkling  bright  eyes,  by  our  soft  tossing  curls, 

We'll  make  some  hearts  glad  on  Christmas." 


170        THE     BROADER     VISION 


NIGHT:  STAR:  CHILD 

An  angel  flying  in  the  wintry  night: 
A  burst  of  song  follows  a  burst  of  light. 

Wise  eastern  men  watch  eastern  skies  afar, 
Where  gleams  in  radiant  light  a  kingly  star. 

A  manger;  cattle  stalled;  a  mother  mild: 
Adoring  magi  hail  as  king  the  Child. 


A     CHRISTMAS     SONG  171 


A  CHRISTMAS  SONG 

"Born  this  day"  was  the  midnight  song, 

That  fell  on  the  shepherds'  ears: 

"Born  this  day"  in  yon  silent  town 

On  which  the  clear-eyed  stars  looked  down : 

And  the  deathless  carol  of  endless  years 

Floats  on  the  wintry  air  along, 

As  it  bursts  from  the  lips  of  the  angel  throng 

A  calm  to  their  needless  fears. 

"Born  this  day"  —  oh,  the  wondrous  word! 

"Born  this  day"  —  Jesus  Christ,  the  Lord! 

"Born  a  King"  —  such  the  wise  men's  word 

That  fell  on  the  ear  of  power. 

"Born  a  King"  —  and  we  follow  the  star 

That  gleamed  for  us  in  the  Orient  far 

And  hath  led  us  to  this  good  hour. 

We  seek  him  with  longing  that  will  not  cease 

Till  we  find  him,  and  hail  him  Prince  of  Peace; 

Hail  him  Wonderful,  Counselor. 

"Born  a  King"  —  oh,  the  wondrous  word! 

"Born  a  King"  —  Jesus  Christ,  the  Lord! 

"Born  this  day"  —  let  us  swell  the  strain 
Which  came  on  the  midnight  clear. 
"Born  a  King"  —  let  us  own  the  sign,  — 
The  gleaming  star  of  the  Child  divine, 


172       THE     BROADER     VISION 

Our  Redeemer  from  sin  and  fear. 

Let  us  hail  him  Saviour,  in  glad  refrain, 

Let  us  hail  him  born  as  our  King  to  reign 

And  worship  with  heart  sincere. 

"Born  this  day"  —  oh,  the  wondrous  word! 

"Born  a  King"  —  Jesus  Christ,  the  Lord. 


BELLS     IN     THE     NIGHT        173 


BELLS  IN  THE  NIGHT 

I  heard  the  sound  of  bells  at  midnight  hour, 
The  hour  that  follows  after  Christmas  Eve. 

They  broke  my  slumber,  as  from  distant  tower 
They  seemed  to  say  the  things  our  souls  believe. 

One  deep-toned  bell  I  heard,  faroff,  unseen, 

Ask,  "Son  of  man,  what  does  the  Christmas  mean?! 

But  ere  my  soul  could  frame  a  fit  reply, 
There  floated  to  me  through  the  midnight  sky 
From  the  far  belfry  tower  the  ringing  chime 
That  told  the  story  of  the  Christmas  time. 

What  does  the  Christmas  mean? 
Oh,  this!    The  heart  of  God,  love-filled, 
Yearning  o'er  heart  of  man,  self-willed: 
Wonder !  the  blood  of  Christ's  heart,  spilled 

To  make  our  poor  hearts  clean. 

What  should  the  Christmas  pray? 
Pray  this:  O  Lord  of  love  and  grace, 
Save  us,  a  sinful,  self-willed  race, 
And  with  the  Christ  to  us  give  place 

In  heaven's  eternal  day. 

What  should  the  Christmas  speak? 
Let  love's  sweet  message  be  the  word, 


174       THE     BROADER     VISION 

By  power  of  love  let  thought  be  stirred; 
Then  strength  divine  shall  undergird 
The  souls  that  Jesus  seek. 

What  shall  the  Christmas  sing? 
This  song:  Redeeming  love  shall  win 
Man's  ransomed  heart  from  self  and  sin, 
And  Christ,  supreme,  shall  reign  within, 

Of  human  hearts  the  King. 

So  sang  the  bells  unto  the  midnight  air. 

Their  cadence  died.     I  gave  my  heart  to  prayer. 


LIGHT     THAT     SHALL     BE       175 


LIGHT  THAT  SHALL  BE 

"  Peace  beginning  to  be, 
Deep  as  the  sleep  of  the  sea." 

—  Sib  Edwin  Arnold 

Unfurling  ages : 

Prophets,  priests  and  sages 
Foretell  the  coming  of  effulgent  light. 

On  history's  pages 

War's  wild  tumult  rages, 
Nor  ends  in  dawning,  misery's  murky  night. 
Will  ever  come  the  break  of  brighter  day? 
Will  ever  night  and  storm  and  rack  give  way? 

Fresh  watch-fires  burning: 

At  close  of  day  returning, 
Judsean  shepherds  fold  their  weary  flocks. 

Vigil  eyes  keeping 

Watch,  while  others,  sleeping, 
Forget  alarms  and  gray  Time's  rudest  shocks. 
Suddenly,  like  the  trumpet's  far  fanfare, 
An  angel  voice  rings  on  the  midnight  air. 

Great  joy,  the  tidings ! 

From  celestial  hidings 
For  all  mankind  fares  forth  the  waited  hour. 

Uplifted  portals, 

Joy  for  sin-slaved  mortals; 
Behold  the  Prince  of  Peace  in  kingly  power! 
Light  of  the  Golden  Age  dawns  clear  at  last; 
Comes  on  the  hour  when  sin  and  hate  are  past. 


176       THE     BROADER     VISION 


ONE  HUNDRED  YEARS 

Written  for  the  One  Hundredth  Anniversary  op  the 
Founding  of  Middlebury  College 


One  Hundred  Years :  One  Hundred  Years :  What  are  One 

Hundred  Years? 
A  ten-arched  span  of  decades,  bridging  the  hopes  and  fears 
Of  the  slow  stream  of  life,  like  dungeon  darkness  slow, 
And  yet  that  speeds  as  meteors  speed,  in  its  ever  onward 

flow. 

One  Hundred  Years :    One  Hundred  Years :  What  are  One 

Hundred  Years? 
A  hundred  flowering  springtimes,  now  laughing,  now  in 

tears: 
A  hundred  stalwart  summers,  wresting  by  daily  toil 
And  sweat  of  brow  their  daily  bread,  from  oft  unwilling 

soil; 
A  hundred  restful  autumns,  rich  in  their  golden  store; 
A  hundred  silver  winters,  whitening  the  stained  world  o'er. 

One  Hundred  Years :  One  Hundred  Years :  What  are  One 

Hundred  Years? 
In  Clio's  hand  on  Helicon  one  more  closed  scroll  appears : 
The  records  of  the  hoary  past,  the  sayings  of  the  wise, 
Are  swelled  by  page  on  page  that  tell  how  nations  fall 

and  rise: 
And  how  upon  these  western  shores,  'neath  freedom's  flag 

unfurled, 
The  hero-child  of  liberty  stands  champion  of  the  world. 


ONE     HUNDRED     YEARS        177 

One  Hundred  Years :  One  Hundred  Years :   What  are  One 

Hundred  Years? 
A  time  whose  vast  achievements  pass  all  visions  of  all 

seers; 
Whose  hands  have  weighed  the  planets,  and  writ  crea- 
tion's story; 
Whose  feet  have  left  mid  arctic  snows  the  imprint  of  their 

glory; 
Whose  ears  have  heard  the  voices  of  all  lands  beyond  all 

seas; 
Whose  eyes  have  seen  God's  mighty  hand  lay  bare  his 

mysteries; 
Whose   lips   have   spoken    words    whose   weight   breaks 

shackles  and  makes  free, 
And  still  shall  break  till  time  shall  bring  to  all  men  liberty. 

One  Hundred  Years :  One  Hundred  Years :  What  are  One 
Hundred  Years? 

Our  Alma  Mater's  lifetime,  and  they  wake  our  hearts  to 
cheers : 

What  though  her  numbers  are  but  few,  she's  in  achieve- 
ment great: 

Great  in  her  patience,  in  her  faith,  and  in  her  power  to 
wait 

While  centuries  come  and  centuries  go,  if  such  the  call 
shall  be, 

Till  patience,  faith  and  power  joined  shall  crown  her 
destiny. 


A  GROUP  OF  SONNETS 


SPRING  181 


SPRING 

Long  prisoned  by  the  frost-king's  icy  hand, 

River  and  lake  burst  from  his  freezing  thrall. 

The  bell-mouthed  crocus  lifts  the  rigid  pall 
To  tint  with  brilliance  the  awakening  land; 
On  the  greensward,  blues,  whites  and  yellows  stand, 

With  beauty  answering  waking  Nature's  call. 

Far  in  the  glen,  where  deep  woods'  shadows  fall, 
The  petals  of  anemones  expand. 

An  unseen  host  moves  over  flood  and  field, 

The  streams  find  freedom  from  the  bonding  chill. 
On  lawn  and  lea,  on  vale  and  crested  hill, 

The  dead,  the  sere  to  life's  strong  pulses  yield, 
And  Nature  answers  with  her  gladsome  song 
To  Spring,  her  lover  who  has  wooed  her  long. 


182       THE     BROADER     VISION 


SUMMER 

The  earth,  long  slumbering  in  the  icy  hall 

Where  snow-robed  Winter  held  relentless  sway, 
Waked  by  the  shining  of  the  gladsome  day 

When  Summer's  herald,  Spring,  with  rapturous  call 

Proclaims  the  breaking  of  the  frost-king's  thrall, 
Unlocks  the  streams;   while  flowers  in  bright  array, 
A  tinted  army,  fragrant  homage  pay 

As  on  the  sward  the  colored  petals  fall. 

Now  shadows  of  the  cloud  sweep  o'er  the  grain, 
And  tasseled  corn  joys  in  the  glowing  sun. 

The  pastures  drink  the  gently  falling  rain; 

Homeward  the  cattle  wend  when  day  is  done. 

Out  on  the  lake  the  windless  sail  is  furled, 

While  night-bird's  note  sings  vesper  for  the  world. 


AUTUMN  183 


AUTUMN 

The  flaming  torches  of  the  autumn  days 
Wave  in  the  breezes  of  the  dying  year. 
Like  clouds  past  sunset,  when  the  night  is  near, 

The  forests  glow  illumed  with  richest  rays 

On  mount,  by  stream,  or  where  in  lonely  ways 
The  swaying  maples,  and  the  oaks  austere, 
In  somber  brown,  in  crimsons  shining  clear, 

Stand  glory-clothed  before  our  raptured  gaze. 

The  river  winds  its  way  past  barring  hills, 
Now  swift,  now  still  in  broad  expanse  it  lies 
And  mirrors  back  the  tints  of  woods  and  skies. 

Far  overhead  the  lingering  song-bird  trills, 

Then  seeks  his  rest  where  dark  pines  stand  serene 
Or  flittering  birches  flaunt  their  silvery  sheen. 


184       THE     BROADER     VISION 


WINTER 

Bleak,  bare,  and  bending  to  the  boisterous  breeze 
Like  things  bereft  of  hope,  and  still  pursued 
By  hostile  fate  in  stern,  persistent  mood, 

Stand  lone  or  forest-grouped  the  shivering  trees, 

While  somber  cadences  to  minor  keys 

Sweep  through  their  branches,  and  the  Winter  rude 
Laughs  to  behold  them  gaunt,  and  sere,  and  nude; 

Then  requiem  sings  in  chilling  melodies. 

The  darkening  water  of  the  river  tells 

Of  icy  darts  that  pierce  the  flowing  stream, 
In  every  drop  to  rob  it  of  its  gleam; 

While  from  the  mountain  crests  roll  down  great  swells 
Of  soughing  sounds  that  seem  like  heaven's  sighs 
Breathed  o'er  the  dying  year  from  arching  skies. 


THE     WINTER     TREES  185 


THE  WINTER  TREES 

The  bough  is  bare.     A  single  leaf  hangs  sere, 

Last  token  of  the  full  tide  of  the  year. 

The  trees  stand  shivering,  stripped  and  dead,  as  though 

The  glory  of  the  summer  had  not  been, 

And  through  their  naked  tops  the  sky  is  seen, 

While,  from  far  background  of  hills  clothed  with  snow, 
Comes  light  that  makes  the  somber  picture  glow 

And  westering  sun  tints  browns  with  silvery  sheen. 

So,  when  our  life  seems  like  the  tree  top  bare, 
All  its  green  joy  only  a  summer  flare, 

The  faith-filled  eye  can  see  the  hidden  blue, 
And  the  full  glory  of  immortal  hope, 
While  unillumined  souls  in  darkness  grope, 

And  see  of  life  naught  but  the  somber  hue. 


186       THE     BROADER     VISION 


ANEMONE 

A  pearly-petaled  flower  in  forest  glade,  — 

Where  mosses  cluster  and  where  brown  leaves  lie, 
Where  overhead  the  dark  pines  sway  and  sigh 

To  the  soft  breeze;   where,  at  the  evening's  shade, 

The  timid  fawn,  of  earth's  wild  sounds  afraid, 
Steals  cautious  forth,  alert,  with  wary  eye, 
Ready  at  danger's  sight  or  sound  to  fly,  — 

I  found,  as  up  the  quiet  glen  I  strayed. 

It  was  a  spring  anemone.     It  told 

Of  summer  days,  of  autumn  harvests  due; 

Of  fields  embrightened  by  the  rod  of  gold 
Which  Nature  waves  as  scepter  for  the  due 

Which  toil  must  pay,  as  tribute  for  the  store 

She  waits  with  lavish  hand  again  to  pour. 


NIGHTFALL  187 


NIGHTFALL 

I  heard  at  eve  the  pealing  of  a  bell 

Swept  by  the  breeze  across  the  darkening  plain. 

A  single  note,  it  sank;  then  clear  again 
Upon  my  ear  its  cadence  rose  and  fell 
Like  waves  of  ocean,  when  they  sink  and  swell 

Beneath  the  power  that  rocks  the  rolling  main; 

Or  like  the  music  of  an  old  refrain, 
Now  high,  now  low,  heart-holding  by  its  spell. 

Then,  far  above,  on  branch  of  towering  pine, 

High,  sweet,  and  vibrant  thrilled  the  night-bird's  song, 

The  vesper  note  that  marks  the  day's  decline. 
So  bird  and  bell,  near  and  afar,  prolong 

In  tones  harmonic  evening's  lullaby, 

Till  glittering  stars  gleam  in  the  azure  sky. 


188       THE     BROADER     VISION 


A  SUMMER  NIGHT 

Now  slowly  evening  draws  her  curtaining  veil. 
Dark,  silhouetted  'gainst  the  leadening  skies 
Stand  fringing  forests.     Silent,  silvery,  lies 

The  unrippled  lake.     Yonder  a  windless  sail 

Marks  where  a  boat  awaits  some  favoring  gale. 
See  now  the  afterglow  in  glory  rise, 
Heaven's  wordless  tribute  to  the  day  that  dies; 

Voiceless  falls  night,  grim  in  her  sable  mail. 

How  high  the  stars !    Far  on  the  azure  dome 
They  take  their  place,  respondent  to  the  call 

Of  Him  who  in  his  unseen  heavenly  home 
Nor  sleeps  nor  slumbers,  watching  over  all. 

Earth  rests.     The  night  wind  gently  stirs  the  trees. 

The  note  of  hermit  thrush  comes  down  the  breeze. 


EVENTIDE  189 


EVENTIDE 

Dark,  leaden  clouds,  as  hours  of  daylight  die, 
Lie  somber  drift-heaps,  banked  against  the  blue. 
Below  them  sinks  the  sun,  nor  struggles  through 

One  brightening  ray  to  cheer  the  watcher's  eye, 

Or  paint  the  wings  of  ships  that  sail  the  sky. 
Gone  is  day's  glory;   comes  the  darkening  hue 
That  shuts  the  gate  of  vision  to  the  view, 

And  opes  the  door  forth  which  night's  dangers  fly. 

But  look!    A  cloud-rift,  and  a  radiant  light 
Silvering  the  edge,  which  swiftly  turns  to  gold, 

While  crimson  glory  tints  the  wave  of  night, 
From  nether  ocean  of  the  sky  inrolled. 

Up  past  mid-arch  of  heaven  the  glory  flies, 

To  kiss  day's  portal  ere  the  day  beam  dies. 


190        THE     BROADER     VISION 


MORS  — LUX 

Maksh  grass,  all  verdure  gone,  stalks  sere  and  brown, 
Dead  emblems  of  a  life  no  more  to  be, 
Stretching  across  the  lowlands  to  the  sea; 

Dull  clouds  o'erhead,  the  old  year's  dying  frown 

Upon  the  ruin  of  her  summer's  crown; 

A  few  leaves  rustling  in  a  half  wrecked  tree, 
And  cold,  pale  rays  that  steal  across  the  lea 

From  the  low  sun,  fast  hastening  to  its  down. 

But  list!    Above  the  ruin  spreading  far, 

Nature  will  throw  her  spotless  robe  of  white, 

And  distant  spheres,  each  gleaming,  glowing  star 
Will  o'er  it  pour  their  radiant  flood  of  light, 

While  hands  divine  weave  'neath  the  dead  world's  bier 

A  wondrous  garment  for  the  coming  year. 


THE     GUEST     ROOM  191 


THE  GUEST  ROOM 

The  prophet's  chamber  with  its  open  door 
Survives  the  shock  of  ages,  and  can  still 
With  peace  and  calm  and  wordless  comfort  fill 

The  heart  that  finds  it  as  in  days  of  yore. 

Life's  tides  may  still  through  deep-worn  channels  pour, 
But  thither  bring  no  freight  of  carking  ill. 
In  that  blest  spot  no  wintry  storm  can  chill. 

Faith,  hope,  and  love  abide;  life  wants  no  more. 

Refreshed  and  strengthened  greet  the  coming  day. 

Take  up  the  burden,  for  a  night  laid  down, 
Ready  for  aught;  add  labor  what  it  may, 

Take  it  with  joy,  and  never  thought  of  frown. 
The  prophet's  chamber  is  toil's  anteroom; 
Gird  there  for  duty;  then  God's  task  resume. 


192        THE     BROADER     VISION 


THE  WATCHER 

High  on  the  cliffs  above  the  rolling  sea, 
The  watcher  scanned  the  far  horizon  line, 
Heedless  alike  of  wind  and  cloud.     "Not  mine 

To  care  how  long  or  wild  the  tempest  be, 

If  but  one  bark  comes  sailing  back  to  me." 
Slowly  the  sun  moved  down  the  long  incline 
To  the  far  portal  where  its  light  benign 

Fades,  as  day  closes  and  night  turns  the  key. 

High  up  the  cliff  howled  the  storm's  raucous  roar: 
In  from  the  west  the  fisher  barks  were  driven. 

The  morning  broke.  The  watcher's  eye  no  more 
Swept  the  wild  sea.     Blinded  by  tears,  and  riven 

Of  love  and  joy,  she  groped  her  lonely  way 

Back  from  the  night,  into  the  hopeless  day. 


THE     GLEN     AND     SHADOW      193 


THE  GLEN  AND  THE  SHADOW 

The  glen  o'er  which  the  forests  grimly  close 

Receives  the  sunbeam  as  a  welcome  friend. 
Shimmering  o'er  leaf  and  rill  and  calm  repose 

Of  granite  cliffs,  silent  to  earth  it  goes. 
Touched  by  its  gleam,  poplars  and  birches  bend 

As  sun-kissed  breezes  'mid  their  slim  stems  float. 
The  sun  sets;  shadow  darkens  into  night, 

Cold,  somber,  cheerless;   and  the  night-bird's  note 
Pours  wailing  from  his  tiny  feathered  throat, 

Sounding  no  prophecy  of  future  light, 
Nor  hint  that  morn  shall  break  with  radiance  bright, 

And  sunbeam  soft  again  with  shadow  blend. 

Yet  murmurs  not  the  glen,  though  past  its  day, 
Nor  moans  the  loss  of  friendly,  shimmering  ray. 


194        THE     BROADER    'VISION 


THE  ANGELUS 

The  vibrant  tone  of  the  deep-throated  bell 

Sounds  clear,  strong,  sweet  from  the  old  minster  tower 
Across  the  moorland,  as  the  evening  hour 

Draws  down.     On  heart  of  patient  toil  a  spell 

Is  cast  by  cadences  that  sink  and  swell 

As  waves,  land-driven  by  the  gentle  power 

Of  coursing  winds,  whiles  yet  no  storm-clouds  lower, 

And  on  the  deep  the  night-watch  calls,  "All's  well!" 

Far  out  beyond  the  turmoil  of  the  town, 

Where  the  long  sand-line  marks  the  ocean's  sweep, 
And  lazy  waves  up  the  long  sand-slope  creep 

To  kiss  the  feet  of  sedge  grass  sere  and  brown, 
Rolls  on  the  music  of  the  call  to  prayer, 
And  faith  makes  answer,  and  forgets  her  care. 


SELF-COMPREHENSION       195 


SELF-COMPREHENSION 

"The  laborer  is  worthy  of  his  hire." 

No  matter  where  the  fields  his  labor  tills, 
If  'twixt  the  dawn  and  dusk  his  purpose  fills 

The  grand  ambition  to  rise  ever  higher; 

If  through  his  veins  his  pulses  send  desire 
To  reach  life's  goal;   if  in  his  soul  he  wills 
To  win  his  fight  'gainst  all  opposing  ills, 

Kindling  each  day  afresh  the  noble  fire. 

So  toiling,  he  shall  come  at  last  to  know 
The  power  that  lies  in  earnest  effort  made; 

So  toiling,  he  shall  find  e'en  here  below 
The  sweetest  guerdon  e'er  to  labor  paid: 

The  tribute  paid  by  self  to  service  done, 

The  soul's  rejoicing  over  victory  won. 


196        THE     BROADER     VISION 


LIBERTY 

The  power  to  choose  one's  way  restrained  by  none 

Save  Him  who  gave  the  soul  its  power  to  choose; 

The  power  to  grasp  and  hold,  or  to  refuse 
What  life  shall  proffer  as  its  course  is  run; 
The  power  to  finish  or  to  leave  undone, 

Reckless  of  ends,  whether  one  gain  or  lose; 

Men  call  this  liberty,  and  oft  abuse 
God's  gift,  that  can  but  be  by  service  won. 

For  liberty  is  guerdon  for  that  soul 

That,  serving,  finds  itself  most  truly  free; 

That,  yielding,  for  the  good  of  life's  great  whole, 
Part  of  its  right,  gains  yet  the  victory. 

For  they  are  freest  who  to  others  give 

The  right  that  self  demands,  the  right  to  live. 


LOVE  197 


LOVE 

That  love  should  be  akin  to  human  pain 

Seems  passing  strange;   but  yet  life  blends  them  so, 
That  which  is  pain,  which  love,  one  scarce  may  know, 

When  from  the  heartstrings  sounds  the  mingled  strain, 

Until  one  asks  to  hear  it  o'er  again. 

And  then,  too  oft,  repeating  brings  but  woe 
That  wrings  the  soul  and  makes  the  tears  o'erflow, 

Since  love  is  lost  in  the  retoned  refrain. 

And  yet  with  joy  I  even  such  price  would  pay 
If  I  could  know  that  love  at  last  would  be 
The  overtone  of  the  whole  harmony. 

If  I  could  know  the  pain  would  pass  away, 
Then  could  I  bless  the  hand  that  from  above 
Struck  first  the  note  of  pain,  then  that  of  love. 


198       THE     BROADER     VISION 


THE  MASTER  PASSION 

Into  the  toil,  unto  the  daily  task 

Faith  moves  once  more;    her  heart  has  purpose  strong, 
Be  the  day's  burden  great  or  pathway  long, 

To  tread  the  path,  and  for  the  burden  ask 

The  strength  to  bear;   nor  thinks  to  idly  bask 
In  the  world's  brilliance,  nor  to  hear  the  song 
Which  pleasure  sings  to  lure  the  passing  throng 

To  scenes  where  rule  the  revel  and  the  mask. 

For  faith,  earth's  sirens  have  no  swerving  call; 

Her  course  lies  straight,  be  it  through  night  or  day. 
For  faith,  earth's  burdens,  be  they  great  or  small, 

Are  light,  since  Christ  is  life  and  truth  and  way. 
Faith's  master  passion,  brings  life  good  or  ill, 
Is  sweet  submission  to  her  Master's  will. 


THEGHURGH  199 


THE  CHURCH 

Four-square  to  all  the  winds  that  fiercely  blow, 
Her  turrets  rising  from  her  bastioned  walls, 
A  peaceful  fortress;   echoing  through  her  halls 

No  tread  of  men  armed  'gainst  an  earthly  foe, 

But  the  soft  tread  of  passing  to  and  fro 
Of  those  whose  voices  join  in  gentle  calls, 
As  one  by  one  each  at  the  altar  falls, 

Of  Him  from  whom  all  earthly  blessings  flow. 

A  peaceful  fortress  to  cathedral  turned; 

Her  casemates,  cloisters,  and  her  barracks,  homes; 
Her  sentries,  preachers;  and,  where  watch-fires  burned, 

Rise  countless  shrines,  with  spires  or  rounded  domes, 
That  tell  the  world  that  gruesome  war  must  cease, 
And  Christ,  triumphant,  reign  as  Prince  of  Peace. 


200       THE     BROADER     VISION 


GRACE 

Grace  free  as  freedom,  but  no  spoil  of  war; 
Grace  pouring  in  as  pours  the  ocean  tide, 
When  on  its  swelling  crests,  outspreading  wide, 

Wave  after  wave,  white-capped,  sent  in  from  far, 

Like  ocean's  coursers  with  triumphal  car, 
Surging,  rejoicing,  flashing,  sunbeams  ride 
To  kiss  the  waiting  sands,  as  if  their  bride, 

Ceaseless,  from  dawn  till  shines  the  evening  star. 

So  grace,  deep  as  that  ever  rolling  sea, 

Gift  of  a  love  that  knows  nor  rest  nor  pause, 
While  God  is  God,  and  love  obeys  his  laws, 

Flows  for  our  souls  from  cross-crowned  Calvary; 
And  on  its  waves  that  lave  our  life  the  while 
Rides  the  sweet  sunshine  of  his  grace-lit  smile. 


THE     REFUGE  201 


THE  REFUGE 

Love  binding  with  a  bond  more  strong  than  fate, 
And  recking  not  the  fiercest  blasts  that  blow, 
By  passion  loosed,  nor  fearing  waves  that  strow 

Along  life's  shores  wrecks  made  by  sin  and  hate, 

Holds  human  souls  impelled  by  purpose  great, 
Though  long  the  way  and  the  on-going  slow, 
Though  sharp  the  assault  of  ever  watchful  foe, 

To  walk  the  narrow  way  to  glory's  gate. 

For  God  is  love,  and  strength  is  in  his  arm, 

And  no  opposer  can  his  will  defeat. 
And  love  is  peace,  that  smiles  at  rude  alarm, 

And  peace  means  rest,  when  love  and  life  shall  meet. 
Yea,  God  is  love,  the  unbroken  b<5hd  that  holds 
The  storm-tossed  soul,  and  to  himself  enfolds. 


202       THE     BROADER     VISION 


POWER  AND  LOVE 

With  head  uplifted  while  his  keen  eye  flashed 
Conscious  that  life  his  great  behest  must  heed, 
Thinking  of  triumph  on  the  martial  field 
Where  hosts  to  stronger  hosts  opposing  yield, 
Power  cried,  "Crown  me  Glory,"  nor  abashed 
Thought  that  the  prayer  meant  life's  ambitions  dashed 
For  other  men.     "Straight  shall  my  purpose  speed 
On  to  its  goal,  though  many  hearts  may  bleed." 

Then  whispered  Love  with  gentle  voice  and  low: 
"Since  hearts  must  bleed  if  this  thy  purpose  be, 
With  thee,  companion,  handmaid,  let  me  go, 
With  heart  to  pity,  and  with  eyes  to  see 
And  hand  to  heal  the  aching,  breaking  heart." 
But  Power  replied,  "No:  let  us  never  start." 


SAMUEL      H.     HADLEY  203 


SAMUEL  H.  HADLEY 

A  broken  reed  on  which  no  life  could  lean : 

A  bit  of  flotsam  tossed  on  hostile  shore: 

A  human  wreck  was  he,  and  nothing  more. 
Sometimes  the  thought  of  what  he  might  have  been 
Fell  on  his  soul.     As  snowflakes  on  the  green 

In  late  spring  days  when  winter's  rule  is  o'er 

Whiten  a  moment,  then  pass  open  door 
Of  waking  earth  into  the  vast  unseen; 

So  thoughts  at  random  fell  on  this  poor  soul, 

But  left  no  impress  for  a  future  good. 
And  then  the  change.     "Christ  Jesus  makes  thee  whole." 

Grew  straight  the  broken  reed;   the  wave-tossed  wood 
Became  a  way-mark;   and  the  wreck  a  guide 
To  souls  adrift  out  on  Sin's  whelming  tide. 


204       THE     BROADER     VISION 


JULIA  WARD  HOWE 

In  days  when  clouds  hung  dark,  when  fierce  winds  blew, 
When  hope  in  patriot  breasts  was  pulsing  slow, 
When  civil  strife  was  touching  life  with  woe, 

When,  like  ill-omened  bird,  dire  anguish  drew 

The  cry,  "O  Lord,  how  long?"  then  vision  new 
Came  to  one  waiting  soul,  inspired  to  know 
How  work  together,  even  here  below, 

All  things  for  good  to  them  whose  hearts  are  true. 

She  touched  her  harp;  she  sang  her  glory  strain, 
"Mine  eyes  have  seen  the  coming  of  the  Lord." 

High  hope  beat  fast,  and  life  forgot  its  pain, 
Clear  voices  answered  to  the  vibrant  chord. 

"His  vintage  he  is  trampling,"  thus  she  sang, 

And  through  the  land  one  mighty  echo  rang. 


ABRAHAM     LINCOLN  205 


ABRAHAM  LINCOLN 

Like  rugged  stone  cut  from  its  mountain  bed 

And  wrought  by  hands  divine  with  matchless  power 
For  Freedom's  temple  in  Time's  crucial  hour, 

He  stood,  strong  soul,  by  noble  purpose  led 

To  save  the  Union  by  fierce  foes  bestead. 

Great  heart,  unheeding  threatening  clouds  that  lower, 
And  sweeping  storms  that  make  the  craven  cower, 

He  forward  moved  with  strong,  unfaltering  tread. 

The  nation,  saved,  wreathes  with  its  immortelles 
The  rugged  column  that  repelled  the  stroke 

That  threatened  death;   and  its  loud  anthem  swells 
In  ringing  notes  to  him  whose  daring  broke 

The  slave's  hard  chain,  and  gave  him  right  to  be 

On  Freedom's  soil  the  child  of  Liberty. 


206       THE     BROADER     VISION 


WILLIAM  C.  GRAY 

A  sturdy  spirit  cradled  in  the  storm 

When  life  was  young,  when  fears  brought  no  alarms 
That  in  young  manhood's  hour  felt  all  the  charms 

That  strength  incarnate  lends  to  mortal  form; 

For  whom  stern  truth  was  standard,  guide,  and  norm; 
Erect,  alert,  self -poised  with  folded  arms 
In  manhood's  prime,  sin  neither  daunts  nor  harms 

As  with  brave  tongue  he  speaks  for  life's  reform. 

Yet  graced  with  smile  that  wins  sweet  childhood's  heart, 
With  laugh  as  music-full  as  wild  thrush-song, 

With  jest  all  guileless,  but  of  wondrous  art, 
With  humor  subtle,  gentle,  fresh  and  strong  — 

Titan  in  this  our  untitanic  day, 

Master  of  arts  —  the  genial,  grave  and  gay. 


TO-DAY'S     BETHLEHEM       207 


TO-DAY'S  BETHLEHEM 

Once  Bethlehem's  shepherds  'neath  night's  sable  wing 
Heard  at  the  midnight  hour  the  angel  call, 
"Good  tidings  of  great  joy  to  you,  to  all 

Who  to  the  promise  of  the  prophets  cling; 

For  unto  you  this  day  is  born  a  King. 
Go  where  he  lies  cradled  in  manger  stall, 
And  at  his  feet  reverent,  obeisant  fall, 

And  all  your  hearts  in  worship  thither  bring." 

And  still  the  shepherds  watch  as  long  ago, 
And  still  the  seraph  choir  sings  in  the  night, 

And  still  the  strains  of  heavenly  music  flow; 
If  still,  like  them  of  old  on  upland  height, 

Our  ears  are  open  to  hear  seraphs  sing, 

And  eyes  are  watching  for  the  coming  King. 


208        THE     BROADER     VISION 


NIGHTFALL 

The  last  poem  written  by  Richard  Sill  Holmes. 

Soft  lies  the  long,  low  cloud  upon  the  sky, 
One  edge  gold-broidered  by  the  needling  light, 
One  silvered.     'Tis  the  setting  sun's  Good  Night 

To  toiling  millions  as  the  day  hours  die. 

Earth's  restless  hum  is  hushed.     The  night-bird's  cry 
Alone  is  heard,  weird,  falling  from  the  height 
Of  the  lone  pine;  a  trill  that  marks  the  flight 

Of  day;  yet  still  a  song  and  not  a  sigh. 

So  be  our  lives;   their  cloud  lines  glorified, 

Their  evening  tints  more  wondrous  than  their  day; 

Their  somber  shadows  richened,  beautified, 

Though  pauseless  still  we  tread  the  westward  way; 

Hope,  like  the  night-bird,  sounding  clear  above 

One  note  that  ne'er  shall  die,  Eternal  Love. 


SPARKS  FROM  THE  THOUGHT 
ANVIL 


ANTITHESES    AND    ANALOGIES      211 


ANTITHESES  AND  ANALOGIES 

A  flash  light  reveals  the  fact  of  darkness  with  em- 
phasis. A  searchlight  reveals  the  contents  of  darkness. 
Conscience  is  often  both. 

Independence  is  good  for  a  man  as  long  as  he  is  by  him- 
self. After  association  with  others  begins,  interdepend- 
ence is  better. 

To  be  near  the  truth  and  pass  it  by  without  knowing 
is  worse  than  to  be  far  from  it  but  steadily  though  slowly 
toiling  toward  it. 

To  have  nothing  in  character  or  conduct  to  defend  is 
better  than  the  best  defense  ever  made. 

The  world  owes  no  man  a  living,  but  every  man  owes 
the  world  an  honest  effort  to  get  one. 

To  see  truth  as  it  is,  though  distasteful,  is  better  than 
to  see  it  as  it  is  not,  though  delectable. 

Trouble,  in  its  growth  and  seed-sowing,  is  often  like  a 
dandelion.  Its  root  is  single;  its  seeds  fly  to  the  ends  of 
the  earth. 

The  waves  are  not  the  ocean,  but  only  results  of  the 
storms  that  sweep  its  surface.     So,  emotions  are  not  life. 


212        THE     BROADER     VISION 

To  believe  nothing  with  all  one's  might  is  better  than 
to  half-believe  something  and  continually  apologize  for 
the  half-belief . 

Poetry  is  language  dancing  to  the  music  of  the  imagina- 
tion.    Its  rhymes  are  only  the  pause  points  of  its  feet. 

Sunshine  never  asks:  "On  what  shall  I  shine?"  It 
just  shines.     We  suspect  that  is  the  way  God  loves. 

To  be  useful  one  need  not  blow  a  trumpet  nor  beat  a 
drum.  A  cambric  needle  makes  no  noise;  neither  does  a 
pen  that  writes  a  letter  to  a  sorrowing  soul. 

Self-moderation  in  one's  own  speech  is  better  than 
another's  toleration  for  that  speech. 

The  creators  like  Homer,  Plato,  Moses  and  Paul  have 
been  few.  The  imitators  are  a  vast  army  whose  work  has 
beautified  the  world. 

If  broken  promises  make  paving  stones  for  hell,  do 
promises  kept  to  the  letter  make  a  smooth  roadway 
toward  heaven? 

To  be  a  student  with  eye  fixed  on  the  stars,  striving 
thus  to  see  God,  is  better  than  to  watch,  for  years,  with 
unbroken  gaze,  the  outflow  from  the  discharge  pipe  of  an 
oil-well. 


ANTITHESES   AND   ANALOGIES      213 

Unkept  private  promises  subject  their  makers  and 
breakers  to  distrust  and  contempt.  Unkept  political 
ones  have  been  the  chief  asset  of  political  parties  for  a 
quarter  of  a  century. 

Christian  Science  is  a  name  fixed  and  definite,  and  may 
not  be  turned  from  its  anchorage  in  a  cult.  But  scientific 
Christianity  is  quite  a  different  thing,  of  which  our  national 
life  is  in  great  need. 

Milton  wrote:  "They  also  serve  who  only  stand  and 
wait."  Multitudes  of  our  generation  accept  it,  saying: 
"That  sort  of  service  suits  me."  The  Bowery  bread-line 
is  ample  proof.  But  there  are  many  sons  of  wealth 
also  who  are  units  in  a  figurative  bread-line. 

Benevolence  is  etymologically  the  opposite  of  malevo- 
lence. Generosity  has  no  such  opposite;  it  stands  alone. 
An  ungenerous  person  is  prone  to  be  a  curmudgeon  and 
niggardly.  A  malevolent  one  is  often  open-handed  in 
some  directions,  though  hate-filled  in  others. 

Thousands  of  passengers  ride  in  Pullman  coaches  rejoic- 
ing in  the  brilliant  electric  light,  and  absolutely  uncon- 
scious that  the  revolving  car  axle  under  them  makes  it. 
Light  is  thus  a  by-product  of  locomotion.  Is  it  possible 
that  thought  is  a  like  by-product  of  the  motors  that  move 
our  lives? 


214       THE     BROADER     VISION 


OLD  SAYINGS  WITH  MODERN  MEANINGS 

" Truth  crushed  to  earth  will  rise  again";  but  un- 
crushed  truth  has  a  better  chance  of  making  a  record  for 
height. 

"Of  two  evils  choose  the  least,"  is  a  life-harming  fallacy. 
No  revelation  has  ever  told  which  is  the  least  of  any  or 
all  evils. 

"Silence  is  golden."  Sometimes  it  is  a  leaden  lie,  as 
vocal  as  the  universe  is  wide. 

"Back  to  Christ!"  has  been  in  some  quarters  a  popular 
cry.  But  the  trouble  with  many  a  Christian  is,  he  has 
his  back  to  Christ. 

Many  persons  in  our  day  practice  faithfully  along  the 
line  of  David's  utterance;  "Sacrifice  and  offerings  Thou 
didst  not  desire." 

"God  was  in  Christ  reconciling  the  world  unto  him- 
self," and  Christ  was  in  God  sacrificing  himself  unto  the 
world. 

In  these  days  candidates  should  remember  that  the 
word  "candidate"  means  "clothed  with  shining  white." 
Pity  is  it  that  the  Roman  garment  has  so  completely 
failed  in  being  a  symbol  of  character. 


MODERN     MEANINGS  215 

The  Greeks  were  wont  to  say:  "After  the  contest 
the  crown."  The  Christ  taught,  "After  the  cross:  the 
crown."  The  modern  spirit  says,  "The  contest  and  the 
cross  for  my  father;   the  crown  for  me." 

"By  faith  Abraham"  —  in  a  day  so  long  ago  that  some 
critics  say,  "Abraham  is  only  an  eponym."  If  we  ask, 
"By  faith  who?"  now,  will  we  get  answer  from  a  church 
full  of  eponyms?    Or  are  all  the  Abrahams  dead? 


216        THE     BROADER     VISION 


KINDLING 

If  there  were  but  one  sort  of  temptation  there  would 
be  fewer  sinners. 

It  is  as  easy  to  trust  God  for  the  other  man  as  it  is 
to  see  the  other  man's  sins. 

"  What  is  wrong  with  the  Church  ?  "  Nothing.  What 
makes  its  progress  so  slow  ?  Its  freight. 

Inspiration  is  a  spiritual  fire;  nothing  material  lights  it. 

A  sense  of  humor  is  to  many  a  man  a  safety  valve 
against  anger. 

Necessity  is  the  mother  of  invention,  but  sometimes  she 
is  unable  to  dress  her  children. 

Superstition  is  the  practice  of  crystallized  ignorance. 

Sadness  is  often  the  tribute  that  memory  exacts  from 
forgetfulness. 

No  lesson  of  history  is  plainer  than  this  —  no  man  is 
greater  than  the  smallest  of  his  limitations. 

The  value  of  a  sermon  is  not  determined  by  a  hearer's 
comments  made  between  his  pew  and  the  church  door, 
but  by  his  conduct  next  day. 


KINDLING  217 


Merit  is  only  relative.  The  standards  of  palace  and  of 
prison  are  very  different.  "X"  may  equal  "  Y,"  however, 
in  the  equation  expressing  relative  merit. 

The  digger  is  a  great  life  saver.  The  shovel  and  the 
tile  are  the  destroyers  of  the  swamp  and  the  gutter. 

To  be  sharp  as  a  razor,  shrewd  as  nails,  hard  as  steel, 
and  always  honest  is  to  be  a  sincere,  truth-loving,  God- 
fearing hypocrite. 

Eloquence  is  not  rhetoric,  but  a  torrent  whose  springs 
are  in  the  recesses  of  the  soul. 

One  who  walks  in  the  light  is  wise,  if  sure  that  the 
light  is  not  reflected  from  the  moon  shining  on  a  marsh. 

To  know  the  truth  is  to  know  more  than  mere  facts; 
it  is  to  know  the  relations  of  the  facts  to  one  another. 

Inclination  is  the  bending  of  a  soul.  With  the  soul  as 
with  a  tree,  twig  time  is  the  time  for  bending. 

The  act  of  thinking  is  pleasant,  after  custom  takes 
away  the  sense  of  newness.     It  is  also  useful. 

The  logical  time  for  a  money-maker  or  a  sermon- 
maker  to  stop  is  when  he  has  reached  his  climax.  Few 
of  either  class  seem  to  know  it. 


218        THE     BROADER     VISION 

True  worth  is  the  deposit  which  good  life  makes  in  the 
storehouse  of  character.  A  man  may  leave  the  doors 
of  that  storehouse  wide  open  without  fear.  Only  his  own 
hands  can  remove  or  waste  the  treasure. 

.Expression,  impression,  repression,  depression,  suppres- 
sion, —  these  are  etymological  illustrations  of  how  the 
essential  and  the  fundamental  can  be  affected  by  the 
insignificant. 

Sight  is  the  only  function  of  the  senses  which  is  applied 
to  the  action  of  the  mind.  When  a  truth  heretofore  un- 
comprehended  suddenly  flashes  on  a  soul,  he  says:  "I 
see  it";  never  "I  hear  it,"  "I  touch  it,  taste  it,  smell  it." 

Courage  is  seldom,  if  ever,  noisy.  It  is  never  bravado. 
It  is  not  a  pugilistic  virtue.  Courage  is  heart-age,  and  its 
manifestation  is  usually  as  quiet  as  a  pulse-beat. 

New  Year  resolutions  are  hardly  more  worthless,  as  a 
rule,  than  those  of  religious  conventions.  The  first  are 
the  children  of  retrospect;   the  second,  of  irresponsibility. 

Preachers  are  not  made  by  seminaries.  Lyman 
Beecher  never  saw  a  theological  seminary,  as  a  student. 
All  a  seminary  can  do  is  to  open  the  door  of  a  man's 
being  and  let  the  preacher  out. 

The  best  minister  is  the  one  truest  to  his  own  manhood, 
and  the  best  manhood  is  revealed  in  him  who  is  truest 


KINDLING  219 


minister  to  life  all  about  him.     Phillips  Brooks  was  such 
a  minister;   John  H.  Converse  displayed  such  manhood. 

Installation,  jubilation,  exaltation,  fluctuation,  depre- 
cation, imprecation,  mortification,  expostulation,  objur- 
gation, dubitation,  abdication,  non-relation.  That  is  the 
story  of  many  a  minister  and  a  congregation. 

Music  is  the  soul's  expression  of  passion  or  emotion,  of 
rapture  or  delight,  of  sorrow  or  joy.  Its  method  is  melody 
or  harmony;  its  test  is  laughter  or  applause,  silence  or 
tears. 

Symmetry  is  better  than  distortion,  goodness  is  better 
than  meanness,  truth  is  better  than  falsehood,  love  is 
better  than  hate.  Commonplaces?  Oh,  yes.  But  the 
world  would  be  better  could  we  see  these  better  things 
oftener  as  life's  actual  commonplaces. 

Prohibition  prohibits  always  where  it  is  unnecessary; 
almost  never  where  it  is  necessary.  "When  law  grips  the 
conscience  of  citizen  or  community,  it  becomes  effective. 
But  an  active  conscience  and  a  community  of  which  the 
majority  is  determined  to  have  intoxicants  are  not  boon 
companions. 

Influence  is  your  dynamic  in  the  life  of  another.  In 
that  other  it  is  indeed  in-fluence.  As  to  yourself,  it  is 
ef-fluence.  "Action  and  reaction  are  equal,"  says  the 
physicist.     But   effluence   and   influence   are   not   equal. 


220       THE     BROADER     VISION 

The  streams  of  good  and  ill  out  of  our  lives  do  not  all 
flow  into  the  wells  which  hearts  are.  Part  of  the  good  is 
wasted  on  human  Saharas. 

Life  is  a  coil  of  ever  rising  rings  of  years,  each  new  one 
a  little  above  the  last;  or  a  coil  of  ever  down-going  years, 
each  succeeding  one  a  little  lower  than  its  predecessor. 
Which  is  your  life?  If  you  are  consciously  ascending  you 
are  drawing  nearer  to  God  and  glory  with  every  cycle. 
Do  not  lament  that  you  have  risen  no  higher.  Rejoice 
that  you  have  risen  at  all.  So,  year  after  year,  up 
the  coil  of  the  years  we  go,  mounting,  often  on  the  very 
mistakes  we  make,  toward  destiny. 


SPARKS    THAT    FLY    UPWARD      221 


SPARKS  THAT  FLY  UPWARD 

Spirituality  is  religious  magnetism  in  action.    It  grips 
the  other  man. 

Spirituality  is  an  atmosphere.     It  blows  no  bugle  and 
wears  no  label. 

Turmoil  is  not  the  pleasantest  way  to  peace;   but,  like 
lightning,  it  is  often  God's  logic. 

Sin  is  a  debt  life  cannot  pay;    Christ's  salvation  is  a 
credit  that  balances  our  books. 

The  divine  that  sometimes  appears  in  humanity  is  a 
fine  proof  that  man  was  made  in  the  image  of  God. 

Love  may  be  hurt,  may  be  wounded  to  death,  but  it 
can  never  be  made  either  foe  or  traitor. 

No  real  Christian  need  deny  that  he  is  one.     He  could 
not  prove  his  denial  in  the  face  of  his  life. 

One's  relation  to  Christ  is  the  latitude  and  longitude 
which  fix  his  place  among  men. 

The  measure  of  human  character  is  not  the  opinion  of 
others,  but  the  record  of  one's  own  consciousness. 


222       THE     BROADER     VISION 

A  shrine  at  a  wayside,  by  which  to  kneel  and  pray, 
serves  often  to  sustain  a  pilgrim.  He  is  thrice  blessed 
who  carries  wayside  and  shrine  in  his  heart. 

Age  may  break  strength  and  loose  the  grip  of  the  hand 
on  life's  activities;  it  cannot  break  the  grip  of  faith's 
anchor  on  the  Rock  of  Ages. 

The  old  theology  is  not  decrepit.  Its  back  is  not  bent, 
nor  do  its  steps  totter.  Modernity  may  not  like  it,  but 
must  confess  that  it  is  stately. 

Patience  under  trial  is  high  moral  virtue;  thankfulness 
under  trial  because  of  calm  trust  in  God  is  Christianity. 

Retrospect  is  sometimes  a  vast  inspiration.  But 
whether  it  inspire  or  depress  depends  on  one's  attitude. 
When  the  back  look  is  at  mire  and  pitfalls  and  jungle,  it 
only  increases  weariness.     This  is  a  parable  of  character. 

A  certain  rich  man  said  recently:  "I  have  made  forty- 
three  millionaires."  A  certain  poor  old  missionary, 
dying,  said,  "I  have  turned  the  New  Hebrides  from 
cannibalism  to  Christ." 

Religion,  in  common  acceptation,  is  the  most  tremen- 
dous of  human  assets.  Probably  that  is  why  the  multi- 
tude keep  it  safely  shut  away  from  contamination  by 
touch   with   life. 


SPARKS    THAT    FLY    UPWARD      223 

Tempest  and  sunshine,  storm  and  calm,  are  only  inci- 
dents of  nature.  Wreck  is  followed  by  beauty,  as  time 
weaves  and  spreads  her  mantle.  The  pity  is,  that  human 
nature  does  not  always  illustrate  the  same  law. 

Peace  of  heart  is  the  dividend  that  self-control  pays 
to  character.  Its  value  is  not  reckoned  in  percentages, 
but  in  the  approval  of  God's  representative  in  a  soul  — 
the  judgment. 

Progressive  politics,  art,  science,  education  —  but  no 
progressive  Christianity.  Jesus  reached  the  end  of  the 
road  with  his  first  step:  "Thou  shalt  love  thine  enemies." 

"The  long,  long,  weary  day,"  and  the  longer,  wearier 
night  that  will  most  surely  follow  may  both  become 
avenues  along  which  the  feet  of  patience  may  bear  the 
soul  to  the  touch  of  the  outstretched  hand  of  God. 

Blunders  and  sins  may  be  equally  deplorable  for  their 
physical  effects,  but  they  are  vastly  different  in  quality. 
Christ  did  not  come  to  call  blunderers  but  sinners  to 
repentance. 

A  man  is  God's  noblest  work  in  creation,  and  a  Chris- 
tian is  God's  most  wonderful  achievement  in  character. 
A  man  is  a  unit,  alone,  uncombined.  A  Christian  is  the 
unit  plus  the  Christ.  The  sum  of  this  combination  is 
that  divine  thing,  a  saved  soul. 


224       THE     BROADER     VISION 

Faith  does  not  consist  in  emotion.  Emotion  is  red  fire. 
It  burns,  beautiful  but  brief.  Faith  is  not  an  impulse. 
Impulse  is  a  lightning  flash.  It  clears  the  air  and  blesses 
sometimes;  but  its  trail  is  marked  by  wreck  often  and 
often.     Faith  rests  in  conviction. 

Jesus  compared  himself  to  many  natural,  common 
things.  "I  am  the  bread  of  life";  "I  am  the  water  of 
life."  He  never  said  of  himself  what  he  said  of  his 
disciples:  "Ye  are  the  salt  of  the  earth."  Not  "I  am  the 
salt."  Salt  can,  must,  in  the  life  with  which  he  was 
familiar,  lose  its  savor.  Had  he  once  lost  his  savor,  we 
should  have  had  no  Saviour. 

"Rejoice  always,  and  again  I  say,  rejoice."  What, 
Paul,  always?  Yes,  I  said  so.  When  you  have  made  a 
business  blunder,  and  your  friends  fall  away,  and  a  sudden 
loss  sweeps  comfort  off,  and  you  are  defeated  in  your 
purposes?  Yes;  just  then.  What?  When  your  life  is 
suddenly  cut  off  from  its  possibilities,  and  the  man  you 
had  trusted  deceives  you  and  wrecks  your  hopes,  and  the 
world  tells  you  it  has  no  more  use  for  you?  Yes;  just 
then.  For  God  is  right  where  he  was  all  the  time.  Don't 
make  yourself  believe  the  world  owes  you  a  living.  It 
does  not.  You  owe  it  decency,  morality,  integrity,  grit, 
indomitability.  Brace  up,  man.  Rejoice  always.  Are 
you  thrown  to-day,  and  your  clothes  torn,  and  your  body 
bruised?  Get  up,  and  if  you  can't  get  the  bruises  salved, 
and  the  tatters  mended,  tramp  right  on  as  you  are,  rejoic- 
ing that  you  can  go  —  come  out  strong,  like  Mark  Tapley. 
You  are  on  "the  King's  Highway." 


SPARKS    THAT    FLY    UPWARD      225 

The  Church  at  large  is  threatened  with  spiritual  useless- 
ness  on  account  of  an  increasing  number  of  nerveless 
Christians.  There  has  never  yet  been  a  case  of  spiritual 
nervous  prostration.  The  more  nervously  active  is  the 
Christian  spirit,  the  keener  is  its  zest  for  work  and  the 
more  marvelous  its  spiritual  power.  But  there  is  real 
danger  of  spiritual  decadence.  The  Church  grows  in  num- 
bers, but  statistics  prove  nothing  as  to  spiritual  power. 
Christianity  is  professed,  but  too  often  it  is  not  possessed, 
and  a  church  member  without  spiritual  nerve  is  no  better 
than  a  jellyfish. 

We  have  no  great  fondness  for  narrow,  intolerant, 
fossilized  theology;  but  a  man  as  narrow  as  the  edge  of  a 
meat-ax,  as  intolerant  as  a  vicious  bull  in  a  field,  and  as 
fossilized  as  a  troglodyte,  is  preferable  to  a  flabby,  pudgy, 
wabbling-souled  Christian. 


226        THE     BROADER     VISION 


OUR  BOOKS 

The  man  who  knows  his  books,  and  whom  his  books 
know,  will  never  be  friendless.  They  have  something 
for  each  mood  that  sits  as  guest  in  his  soul.  They  sing 
to  him,  touch  the  fountain  of  his  tears,  wake  him  to 
laughter,  wreathe  garlands  of  smiles  for  him,  rouse  him 
to  nobler  purpose,  send  him  chastened  to  his  knees. 

How  good  it  is  to  hold  a  book  we  love.  How  satisfy- 
ing it  is  to  stand  before  one's  bookshelves  and  wander 
back  in  thought  through  the  years  where  the  books  lead. 
Here  is  a  row  of  the  finer  volumes,  lords  and  ladies  of 
their  realm.  Here  is  another  of  old  soldiers,  worn,  bat- 
tered, scarred,  wounded,  from  the  mind's  battle  fields. 
Some  cannot  stand  alone.  Some  are  too  crowded  for 
comfort.  But  they  bear  it  all  because  they  love  us  and 
remember  where  we  have  been  together.  And  as  for 
ourselves;  what  do  we  care  for  worn  bindings  and  broken 
covers?    These  are  our  books. 


EDUCATION  227 


EDUCATION 

Education  is  not  a  thing  of  past,  but  of  present  tenses. 
It  is  e-duc-ing  and  not  e-duc-ed  work.  It  is  "drawing 
out "  work.  Education  is  drawing  a  soul  out  of  previously 
existing  conditions  into  such  as  conform  it  to  its  Maker's 
purpose.  If  education  is  a  thing  that  can  be  gotten,  and 
that  can  be  finished  at  any  stated  period  of  life,  it  is  no 
better  than  a  bit  of  personal  property.  Education  is  not 
the  high  art  of  stuffing  a  soul  with  graces  and  accomplish- 
ments, nor  of  filling  it  with  knowledge,  nor  of  cramming 
it  with  ideas.  A  soul  is  not  a  turkey,  nor  a  toy  balloon, 
nor  a  trunk.  Stuff  the  bird  with  bread  crumbs,  sage  and 
onions;  fill  the  balloon  with  gas  and  let  it  fly  to  a  child's 
delight;  cram  the  trunk  with  clothes  until  help  must  be 
called  to  shut  it;  and  neither  bird,  balloon,  nor  trunk 
has  been  educated.  A  precocious  child  that  can  repeat 
verbatim  the  pages  of  the  old-fashioned  Andrews  & 
Stoddard's  Latin  grammar,  exceptions  and  all,  is  not 
necessarily  educated. 

Making  one  learned,  imparting  culture,  causing  one  to 
know  what  all  social  conventions  demand,  is  not  educa- 
tion. Evening  clothes  are  not  education.  If  the  only 
measure  of  education  is  an  academic  gown  and  a  mortar- 
board cap,  men  could  order  the  commodity  from  the 
tailor  and  estimate  it  by  the  quality  of  the  fabric  or  the 
number  of  yards  used  for  the  gown,  or  the  number  of  gold 


228       THE     BROADER     VISION 

tails  in  the  cap's  tassel.  Education  is  not  a  coat  of  paint; 
not  a  thing  to  be  laid  hold  of  and  made  subject  to  the 
various  forms  of  the  verb  "to  get."  To  "get  religion" 
and  to  "get  an  education"  are  expressions  equally  absurd. 
Education  is  a  process  that  begins  when  the  first  impulse 
acts  on  the  soul  of  which  the  purpose  is  to  fit  the  soul 
for  the  thing  God  had  in  mind  when  he  made  that  soul; 
and  it  continues  only  as  it  acts  in  the  direction  of  such  a 
purpose. 


SALVATION     BY    INCULCATION       229 


SALVATION  BY  INCULCATION? 

The  egg  and  the  soul  are  inter-relational.  The  egg 
exists  in  the  world  generate.  So  does  a  soul.  To  explain 
the  physical  chemistry  which  causes  the  one,  or  the  spir- 
itual chemistry  which  causes  the  other,  is  impossible,  but 
facts  are  facts. 

The  egg,  if  left  to  itself,  will  become  degenerate.  So 
will  a  soul.  Keep  the  egg  away  from  contact  with  eggs, 
especially  from  bad  ones;  yet  it  will  degenerate.  Sub- 
ject it  to  warming  influences  of  one  sort  and  another,  it 
will  degenerate.  Let  the  roosters  crow  over  it  and  declare 
what  a  good  egg  it  is,  every  day.  Let  the  hens  cackle 
good  elevating  cackle  over  it;  let  them  have  quiet  hours 
with  it  every  day;  let  the  mother  hen  set  it  the  sweetest 
example  possible;  even  then,  it  will  degenerate.  It  is 
so  with  the  soul.  When  will  we  learn  that  morals  are 
never  taught,  but  are  caught,  like  measles,  and  that  the 
immorals  outclass  the  morals  of  the  world?  Sin  potency 
is  in  the  soul.     It  will  degenerate  in  spite  of  inculcation. 

An  egg  can  be  regenerated.  We  all  know  how.  So 
can  a  soul.  The  processes  can  be  described  by  the  same 
formula.  Forces  from  without  must  act  on  each  in 
accordance  with  law.  The  egg  is  waked  to  life  by  being 
born  from  above.  So  is  the  soul.  Jesus  said  that  to 
Nicodemus.  It  is  conversion  that  saves  a  soul,  not 
inculcation.     Grace    saves,    not    inculcation.     Regenera- 


230        THE     BROADER     VISION 

tion  saves,  not  inculcation.  That  is  the  law.  And  for 
regeneration  there  must  be  heart  throes;  sin  pangs; 
conscience  lashings;  floods  of  penitence;  sharp  turning 
of  a  life,  born  facing  out  and  away  from  God,  squarely 
around  upon  itself,  to  face  in  toward  God  and  to  go 
evermore  his   way. 


NO  THOUGHT  FOR  THE  MORROW  231 


NO  THOUGHT  FOR  THE  MORROW 
An  Anti-Care  Prescription 

Life  is  a  thing  of  the  passing  day.  It  is  to  be  measured 
by  to-day's  doings,  and  not  by  worryings  over  to-morrow. 
What  to-day's  results  will  be  may  not  appear  until  to- 
morrow, but  if  the  work  was  done  as  well  as  we  could  do 
it,  that  is  enough.  Rorrow  no  trouble  from  to-morrow. 
Borrowing  is  bad  business  at  the  best;  and  trouble  is  the 
worst  thing  to  borrow  of  all  borrowable  things.  We 
can  do  nothing  with  trouble  if  we  borrow  it.  It  will  pay 
no  debts  of  yesterday  nor  will  it  buy  exemption  from 
to-day's  duties;  and  if  we  borrow  we  may  have  to  repay 
with  compound  interest  on  the  day  after  to-morrow,  for 
there  is  not  such  another  exacting  creditor  in  this  world 
as  to-morrow. 

A  day  may  not  be  long  enough  to  enable  one  to  do  all 
the  work  it  brings:  it  is  then  surely  not  long  enough  to 
allow  the  doing  of  its  work  and  to-morrow's  also.  To 
"take  time  by  the  forelock"  may  be  a  good  thing  some- 
times, but  one  should  never  forget  that  the  old  man 
carries  a  scythe;  there  is  danger  that  he  will  swing  it  and 
cut  off  the  legs  of  the  life  that  is  trying  to  keep  before  him 
and  lead  him.  It  is  safer  to  let  time  lead,  even  though 
he  does  plod  sometimes. 

How  can  one  help  taking  thought?  How  can  one  keep 
from  worrying?  Can  one  keep  from  thinking?  Not  while 
the  mind  is  alive  and  awake.     But  we  can  help  "taking 


232        THE     BROADER     VISION 

thought."  To  think  is  one  thing;  to  take  thought  is 
another.  To  think  is  to  live;  to  take  thought  is  to  nag 
life.  To  think  is  to  grow  and  become  powerful;  to  take 
thought  is  to  fill  one's  soul  with  anxiety  and  foreboding. 
To  think  is  to  drive  the  soul  to  feeding  in  God's  pasture- 
lands;  to  take  thought  for  the  morrow  is  to  crowd  the 
soul  through  a  hedge  of  thorns,  not  that  it  may  feed  in 
the  field  which  lies  beyond,  but  that  it  may  satisfy  itself 
that  there  will  be  food  there  when  on  some  to-morrow  it 
shall  pass  through  to  that  field.  Thinking  is  the  act  of 
a  healthy  mind;  taking  thought  is  the  sign  of  a  mind 
diseased.  One  can  think  while  resting;  strong,  pure,  help- 
ful thought;  one  can  never  rest  while  taking  thought. 
To  think  is  to  take  care  that  life  shall  move  as  we  would 
have  it;  to  take  thought  is  to  have  care  take  us  in  direc- 
tions whither  we  would  not  go.  To  think  is  the  regular 
beating  of  the  pulse  of  the  intellect;  to  take  thought  is 
to  have  that  pulse  roused  to  abnormal  activity  by  fevers 
of  the  soul  or  by  stimulants  that  are  unnatural.  Not 
against  thinking  but  against  taking  thought  is  the  great 
prescription  given.  Do  to-day  the  deeds  of  to-day  just  as 
well  as  they  can  be  done;  leave  to-morrow's  deeds  to  it. 
Is  not  that  wise?  To-morrow  never  arrives  as  to-morrow. 
When  it  reaches  us  it  is  to-day.  Do  you  fear  trouble  or 
evil  to-morrow?  Both  may  be  in  it,  but  get  to-day's  trouble 
out  of  the  way  before  you  begin  at  to-morrow's.  We  do 
not  believe  a  living  soul  would  have  "the  blues"  if  each 
one  of  us  all  would  take  this  anti-care  prescription.  "The 
blues"  are  only  canned  cares. 


